Audience Participation Time: Cut & Pasty

One of the things I have been endeavoring to do over the last two months is dedicate more time to my own art work. Unfortunately after I get done writing New York Shitty I find myself bereft of any energy to do so. Last weekend this changed. Thanks to my site being down I had the time. Lots of time. What’s more, I had the inspiration. My “eureka moment” came in the way they often do: a discussion at a bar.

The topic of said discussion was the lack of privacy one has in New York City apartments. One need never know when he (or she) will glance out a tenement window to see a neighbor au naturel. I myself have had this experience. Its consequences exacerbated an already tense situation.

I never learned the woman’s name. This is a shame as I know quite a lot about her. This is because she had a habit of sitting in her apartment window chain smoking and talking on her cell phone for hours on end seemingly oblivious to the fact my husband and I could hear every word she was saying. These lengthy monologues would waft into our bedroom along with traces of the crappy weed she would occasionally indulge in. I can’t really bring myself to disdain this woman for predilection for the latter. After all, she was a city employee and probably on a tight budget. But I digress.

As time waxed on, the Mister and my amusement over Cathy’s activities morphed from amusement to annoyance. After she started throwing parties for her equally noisy friends the latter, in turn, transmogrified into extreme hatred. I suspect she sensed this and a cold waresque cloud of mutual contempt formed over our respective households. Chez Shitty was South Korea, our mutually shared “back yard” was Checkpoint Charlie and Chez Cathy was Democratic People’s Republic of Dumbass. Coexistence was for the most part peaceful. Nonetheless one could palpably sense all that was needed to send the situation to hell in a hand basket was a provocation. One day it finally happened: I looked out my bedroom window.

My husband was reading in bed. He wanted to speak to about something. I do recall what. That has been clouded by the fog of war and what happened next: after talking to him I looked up. To see Cathy buck naked. Before I could avert my gaze we locked glances. I could see the rage fill her face. It was done. She promptly shot me the finger and yanked the drapes shut. I suppose I can understand her reason for upset. Then again, her assumption I wanted to look at her rather pendulous breasts was a wee bit presumptuous. Mammary glands hold no amazement for me— and even if they did I needn’t go far to find a pair. Why go out for hamburgers when you can stay home and have steak? But back to my story.

Conversely, one need always be on the lookout for his or her own privacy. These things happens to the best of us. The phone rings as you are about to step into the shower. You dash to answer it and two thirds into your discussion you look up to see an old lady hanging her laundry staring at your hairy ass in abject horror. What to do, you ask? Well at long last I have the answer. Courtesy of lady named Rebecca while having drinks at a place called the Brooklyn Ale House:

I think I am going to get my nipples tattooed so they look pixelated.

That’s when divine inspiration struck. I don’t how the following found its way out of my mouth, but I am very happy it did:

That sounds kind of painful. Why not just make pasties of your own pixelated nipples instead? It’d be a lot cheaper.

The die had been cast. I simply had to find the time and wherewithal to implement my nefarious plan. Then lo, New York Shitty crashed! I considered this to be a sign and got cracking. I did not make the Mister aware of my project. Such endeavors are best done in artistic seclusion.

Long story made short, the cat eventually bolted out of the bag when he shifted his attention from the Lehrer News Hour to my computer monitor.

Those are your breasts.

He noted.

Yes, they are.

I replied.

Do you need me to take more pictures of them?

He inquired with disquieting alacrity.

No, I have the situation well under control.

I assured him.

Are you sure?

He persisted.

Quite sure, thank you.

He went back to watching the news and I went back to work. As the creative process unfolded I had a second epiphany:

Why hide my pixelated lights under a bushel? Why not make it so as anyone can wear them? Why not let “the girls” go global? And so I did. After a few fits and starts Boobification 2.0: Project Cut & Pasty was finally born!

By clicking on the above image you can make your very own Cut & Pasties! What you do with them is your own business.

If there is a lesson to be learned here it is this: do not let, under any circumstances, let New York Shitty go offline. All this does is give me WAY too much time on my hands. I get bored. And as you can see when I get bored interesting things tend to happen.

Miss Heather