My morning starts at 6:00 AM with an alarm that sounds exactly like a muted trombone. It goes wah-wah-wah-wah, shattering my dreams of a perfect autumn afternoon at the Iowa State Fair. I sit up in bed, and for a fleeting second, I expect to see a normal bedroom. Instead, everything around me is rendered in bold, sketchy ink strokes. My dresser looks slightly lopsided.
I pull on my standard uniform. In this world, adults don’t get a wardrobe variety. I wear a plain, oversized sweater with a single, sharp zig zag line running across the middle. I head downstairs, half expecting to trip over a blue security blanket, but it is just my own feet.
Making breakfast in a comic strip is a masterclass in minimalism. The kitchen table is just three quick black lines and a splash of solid color.
- The Coffee: Pours from a pot that looks like a cartoon teardrop.
- The Toast: Pops out of the toaster high enough to hit the ceiling.
- The Mood: I sigh a deep, existential sigh.
I look out the window at the Iowa landscape. The rolling hills of corn look like giant green thumbs sticking out of the ground, cross hatched with perfect little ink lines to show texture. It is beautiful, but it definitely lacks three dimensions.
Stepping outside, the weather is crisp, but the sky is just one solid block of blue. There are no gradients here. I walk down the street past a row of identical houses, each with a single tuft of grass out front.
I pass a small wooden booth with a sign that reads: Psychiatric Help 5¢. The Doctor is IN. A neighborhood kid is sitting there, leaning on her hands, looking bored. She glares at me as I walk by. I consider asking her how to fix my mid life crisis, but I don't think I have the loose change.
Down the block, I see a familiar white beagle sleeping on top of a red doghouse. He doesn't look up as I pass, but I swear I can see a thought bubble floating above his head about a flying ace or a French café. I just shake my head. In Des Moines, dogs usually just bark at the mailman. Here, they write novels on typewriters.
Further down, a round headed kid is staring at a football on the ground. A girl with a smirk is holding it for him.
"Don't do it, kid," I want to yell. "It's a trap!"
But my voice comes out as a loud, incomprehensible WAH-WHA-WAH-WHAA-WAA. He runs, launches himself into the air, and ends up flat on his back with a loud THUD. I just sigh again and keep walking. Some things never change, no matter what universe you are in.
 |
| Find him on X @brogan78 | on Instagram | on Facebook | or on Youtube |