Death of the Imagination
by Logan Faerber
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When growing up, I absolutely loved the popsicles that depicted my favorite cartoon characters, namely Mickey Mouse and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. But I also remember feeling this sadness when I realized how I was literally eating away at their joyful smiling faces, rendering them down into a useless piece of wood that I would gnaw on for the several hours that followed this murderous act. This led me to believe that I was in some way affecting them personally, like a form of voodoo doll. Does that in turn make the ice cream man the true villain and puppet master? - I knew enough to know that idea was ridiculous (However, our ice cream man did have one eye, and seemed to be the main source of pot distribution in our town, so the concept is back up for debate). Anyways,
this illustration and gallery piece was my interpretation of this idea that seemed to haunt me many years ago. Don't get me wrong, I love the idea behind these popsicles and am so happy they bring joy to children's faces, so please never stop making them. I just seem to have this inability of separating fact from fiction, so instead of seeing trash as being out of the way when thrown out, I see it as being shunned and abandoned to live a miserable existence trapped in a bag of various smelly objects. Toy Story 3 pretty much summed this feeling up for me. Simply put, everything I've owned has a memory attached to it, making it harder and harder to cope with separation, especially one which results in disregarding its physical self to the trash alongside banana peels and tissues.
I apologize; this got very deep, very fast. Simply put, Toy Story 3, I love you, but fuck you for making a grown man cry three times in a theater of children.