Life is about discoveries

So, there's this great art store just a few blocks away from where I work in the crushing salt mines for the soulless government boogie man, and I have this whole thing where once upon a time I considered myself creative. Well, anyway, I thought I'd resurrect that impulse and see if maybe it could tame the gnawing rage, or at least keep me up past 8 o'clock at night.

So I went in and I bought these pretty colored pens for to draw with, because I already have oil paints and last time I used those the cats got involved and their painting on the carpet has lasted longer and gotten more compliments than anything I ever did with them. And the plan with these colored pens was to make some fancy cartoony illustrations for this story I wrote way back when I was young and industrious and creative-like and originally had collages that went with it that I made out of fashion magazines and photos I got off the internet, but turns out that's not so much legal if you ever want to actually call it your own work.

So anyway, I hit a hitch. Turns out I suck at drawing. My illustrations turned out something like this:
And somehow I don't think that's really ADDING to the awesomeness of my story, much as I love the gumby arms that guy seems to be sporting. At this point I'm taking refuge in the old collage idea and assuming that cutting up lots of crappy illustrations will have a cool effect something like this:
Thus terrifying small children and not just making them wonder why Stretch Armstrong is sitting on a pile of doo doo.