On December 11th, 1922, a huge black bat dropped out of the sky and left a smoldering crater upon impact. Emerging from the smoke was none other than Vampira, fully formed and ready to present herself to the public as a mistress of the dark, put on this earth to provide ghoulish puns and introductions to bad televised horror films in the 1950s.
Her fame might have been fleeting, according to this Wikipedia entry, but her legacy is eternal. She was an inspirational figure to anyone who has ever loved dangerously arched fake eyebrow lines and a waist that is so small that it defies logic and reason. Her waist, supposedly seventeen inches around, belongs in a Lovecraft story that loves to not-describe the indescribable geometries of things which are cursed. Her waist could bring on madness, and that is what happened to me after I saw a random simple picture of her today, which I will draw for your amusement so that I am not infringing on a photographer’s copyright. I am not exaggerating her angles in any way.
Vampira! How! Did you not have organs? Could you eat? Inside, were you simply a few scoops of sawdust and faux-Satanic prayers? Whatever the cause and whatever the circumstances, hearing that she had a seventeen inch waist caused me (in a fit of insanity) to measure the Captain, who, with his twenty-one inch barrel, would split her precious black garments if he tried to wear them. The Captain is bigger around than at least one adult human woman who has existed, and I told him that to his face. I measured him, and told him that while drowning out his meows requesting kibble. And there is the story of how I wound up drawing the dumbest thing I have drawn all year.
You know how out there in the real world, appearances are important. Whether we like it or not, we are judged for our clothes, hair, general upkeep, and so on. People also seem to respond favorably when you are well-spoken. I think this is also true on the Internet, although people aren’t convinced yet, judging by the appallingly low standards everywhere you look. But suave, sophisticated internet personalities like to give off the impression that they have a decent command of the written language. Unfortunately, typos exist.
It is frustrating to make a typo. You look like you can’t spell something and when you have to backspace a hundred times in order to appear to have any shred of intelligence at all, you just want to give up and start txtn liek it aint mattr. When I read a typo, by the way, I imagine that I have just read a mispronunciation, or in some cases, a total spazz out breakdown. It’s funny when other people do it, but when I do it, I just want to cover my face in varying levels of shame.
Worse, though, is the typo that makes a different, actual word. Sometimes it is the fault of that infernal autocorrect feature, but sometimes it is simply because certain letters are next to each other. And sometimes it is because your brain just wrote a completely different word and that’s weird and also not what I’m talking about here. That’s disturbing in an entirely different way. Anyhow, it is confusing for the other person to encounter this correctly spelled but not exactly relevant new word, and I have been personally HUMILIATED to have been the victim of these errors. And they have traumatized me enough that any time I write the word I mean to write now, I automatically check to make sure I did not accidentally write the wrong word.
And because every chat I have is imagined in my mind as one of my comics – only fully animated (yes, I’m very lucky), I will present these scenarios to you as small comic strips featuring my poor friends.