Written by Stephen
OK, here's a true story about Daniel. In seventh grade science class, we were sitting next to each other, at our desks, and we're both drawing. I had been the token kid-who-could-draw in elementary school -- the class held a contest, and I could draw birds with mohawks playing flying Vs slightly more awesome than the other guy, although I think I had to argue my way to the title. Either way, it can't be more than six months later, and I'm drawing a truck or something, and Daniel goes, "Oh, that isn't how you draw a truck." Not unkindly, just matter-of-factly. And then he busts out a truck, and it's just perfect. I mean, there's a grille, and the wheels are the right size, and he can draw the doors on and everything.
A few weeks later, I'm at his house to work on a school project, and I see a picture tacked to his wall of a superhero. Maybe it was Cable; I don't remember. Point is, it looked seriously awesome. The stance was threatening, the musculature was spot-on, and the half-grimace -- the pained look that everyone in comic books in the early 90s wore, all the time, like none of them could shit right -- was absolutely half-grimacey. I asked him if he'd traced it, and he absently responded that he'd drawn it in fourth grade, on the bus. The bus to school, with the bad shocks that make your pencil twitch. I mean, that was it. He just totally killed my drive to be an artist.
In fact, every time I've seen him draw anything, from that day on, that's the experience I've had: "Motherfucker. Why even try." Trucks, superheroes, girls, talking hamburgers, fake Pokémon, dicks, animals, Jalapaz, our friends, anything. That's pretty much why I poison his food every chance I get. I don't know why it hasn't taken yet. Maybe he built up a resistance. Like he needs anything else to better me at.