Sometimes when you’re writing, the secret veil of your brain gets yanked back by all the weird, comfortable habits and tropes you juggle and struggle against when you’re trying to make something not terrible. Sides of your peronality become profoundly visible that you might not have noticed before. For me it’s apparently a constant desire to write jokes about laser-firing bras, vomiting children or really anything involving a crotch.

I suppose it could be worse. I could have some unceasing subconscious urge to write about a yo-yo dieting 40 year old woman or a fictional village of animals who hate working in their little animal-office, but then again, I doubt Cathy Guisewite ever worries over her subconscious obsession* with pummeling groins.


*Imagining Cathy G. obsessed with crotch gags, yet steadfastly refusing to put them in her strip day after day, is probably the only way I’d ever be able to enjoy reading Cathy.