See, this is the problem with being the daughter of an agonizingly talented artist.

"OH!" says Mom, "you’ve been working on brown paper! So have I! Isn’t it awesome stuff?"

And then she sends me these:

And I go "Apfragglezgglophblugggh!??!" and run around in circles clutching my head because if I live to be A THOUSAND I will never be that talented. (She’d deny this, of course, she’s deeply convinced of my talent, and deprecating of her own and would immediately point out that she’s got about twenty years worth of experience on me, and also I make a lot more money these days, but shit, man! I mean, just…dude…will you look at that friggin’ grackle?!)

No, I don’t know how she does it either. No, it doesn’t appear to have been hereditary. At least, not hereditary ENOUGH.

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