I am in the process of becoming an all powerful Fashion Designer, or at least that is what I am studying to become. Along the way I have received much slack from the surrounding "Art Community" saying that it is shallow and most of all a Fascist endeavor. I, of course, don't believe this to be true or I would not be in this line of study. So my question is, "If people like clothes so much, why must they cast us who design them, as outsiders? And would you have a problem with someone like this marrying your sister Danielle?"

Sincerely,

Sang in Jersey

Dear Sang,

One must exert must caution and care when the wide ocean of our futures narrows to a tiny channel. Caves and channels and streams often conceal and obfuscate hidden dangers: fleets of eels, rocks that gnash and bite like things alive, an ambush of crafty and carnivorous manatees. Whenever we forsake freedom for narrow confinement we run many risks.

A brother of mine, hatching from the same egg clutch as I deep in the seas near your Austro-Alien New Zealand has performed the same type of limiting process that you yourself are going through. No, he is not a Fashion designer. There are no squid who copulate with their Fathers so we as a species are unqualified for the field of fashion.

Ha ha ha. That is a joke, Sang. I'm sure there are some fashion designers who do not cavort in the nude with their close relatives. The Great Gianni Versacci, I am told by Tom, was just such an upstanding gentlemen, well above any such indiscretion. Best you should model yourself after his noble legacy.

My brother accepted gainful employment with a Silicon Valley firm. He hunkered in the deeps of the Pacific (Pacific! Can you imagine a less apt name? Oh, the bloody battles of my youth! The savage armies of Pacific cuttlefish. The blood-dimmed tides of pelagic scoundrels. Pacific, what a cruel jest!) Ocean, tapping into your copper cabled bundles and intercepting communiques from one continent to the next. The Architeuthic Axon is uniquely suited to the processing of vast amounts of data, and he was useful and well-paid.

In a familiar story, the firm that employed him had squandered its awesome resources upon monkey-prostitutes and in the hurling of feces that your species is so fond of. Millions wasted upon this silly hurling of feces and the building of machines to hurl feces farther and faster than anyone preceding. The company folded and its bank was ruptured. A bevy of Executives descended to the briny depths to let my brother, my blood, know of their fate.

It is impossible to keep a secret from a Giant Squid. This is a true thing. When your very nature is to absorb and process information, nothing is a surprise.

When the submersible that the Executive feces throwers were encased in neared my enraged frer he cracked its hull in a manner not unlike one of your waiters in an exclusive restaurant snapping the rough carapace of a pig so that the diners may use their utensils to pull his pork-flesh from under his armor-tough hide. Upon his dismissal, my brother executed his executives.

Are you seeing my point, Sang? Perhaps analogies are a bit complex for one who spends so much time painting the skin of little boys and playing with dolls.

A limiting of yourself to one field will necessarily bring dangers and fear and competition, and if anyone heaps upon you guff you should destroy their submarine. This is my moral.

Further, do not worry so much about being an outsider. You are already a human, and therefore near the bottom of every ranking that matters. Enjoy your place at the bottom. When the end-times, the wet-times, the rising comes you shall all suffer alike. When your art-school comrades mock you and point at your feeble and shrunken genitals just imagine them as food for the Devourer and laugh to yourself.

GS

Post-Scriptorum: Last, but by no means lesser, is my best advice: Keep yourself far from fairest Danielles, lest my minions rise from among the tangle of city plumbing and devour your softest bits. Also, always flush twice. Always.