competitive daydreamers gathered in Tokyo today for the “2024 Space-out Competition”
Heart rates were checked and anyone who laughs, talks or dozes off was eliminated during the 90 min competition.
Part of the joy of rearranging your precooked homunculi features into art is that the process can be unpredictable—I just never know how that thing in my Lazarus Pit will end up!
Will I get a Flesh Picasso this time or an Anthropomorphic Ransom Note screaming for death?
Had a Girl’s Night with Mictlantecuhtli last night, and he gave me a magic whistle that casts “Shit Your Pants,” because he knows I’d be insufferable with it.