In which modern technology is utiilized to form Rorschach-esque ink blots. Updates Wednesdays.
I want to say Pippi Longstocking, but I see a rope bridge, too. Wouldn’t a rope bridge be the kind of place you’d find Pippi Longstocking? Coincidentally, I trace my long and complicated relationship with literature and nudity back to Pippi Longstocking and the book of 1950’s radio bloopers in the cardboard box in my grandmother’s guest bedroom with the immaculate carpet and the foldout couch with the bedsheets that felt like old tortillas. The bloopers book, in addition to being hilarious to me when I was a kid, also featured minimalist nude illustrations to accompany the more racy content.
Thanks to an imaginary girl who lived with a monkey and some long dead radio personalities, I learned that I loved books and I loved nakedness, leading to me being told I was a nerd by a pale faced bug eyed girl in fifth grade and an elaborate plan for stealing my stepfather’s Playboys from his bedroom in middle school. That bug eyed girl got sunburned in Cancun on Spring Break, so that was a kind of tropical Pippi-eqsque justice, and I eventually saw naked girls in person and so had no need of Playboys any longer.
This leads me to conclude that all’s well that ends well for literate fans of soft core pornography, as well as for unsupervised wealthy horse-lifting children.