Hey you! I grew up in the ... No, no, um ... Hold up ...
Morena ... Something something wopwops something Wairarapa something crude drawings ... Wait a minute, I’ve got it!
Art! Encouraged! I dug holes and hit things with sticks. Like most people, right? No? (I swear I thought this was going somewhere. Oh well, we’ve come in two and a half sentences, too far to turn back.) I was the child who was always asked to draw the birthday cards. Primary school ... Crouched on the asphalt after you’ve lost all your comets, galaxies and catseyes to (up until this point) your best friend. Sorry-for-myself solace (said friend included) in drawing side-on pictures of secret underground bases with nuclear reactors and sinister trucks loaded down with a single massive crate, spanning many sheets of painstakingly taped together ... like … I don’t even think there was such a thing as paper sizes back then. Huge ones! Gridded maths books smattered with pictures of sausage people with guns and weird abstract scribbles worn all the way through to the page underneath.
Time passed and I got a bit older and did some things (and some people even did some things to me). School for grownups! I’ve yet to meet one. Books were still filled with militant meat balloons, but luckily this time the teachers seemed to approve (I suspect filling the pages with drawings might have even been the right thing to do). I slowly figured out how to draw sausage people with guns on a computer. No longer did I have to tape sheets of paper together to finish drawings (I’m still floundering at the implications of this).
I’m a little bit older now! They still have guns and they’re still sausagy. I’ve learnt a cool trick. If you cover the sausage people from head to toe in bulky clothing then nobody can tell how sausagy they look underneath! Nifty, eh! Best keep that on the down-low, though.
Now that I’ve wasted three and a half paragraphs of your time, I’ll say exactly the same thing on a single line.
I like to make stuff and do things with people.