The mouse is doing what we have all done: starring in his own private 80s teen movie. Only difference is, in real life the ending wasn’t written by John Hughes, you really could get dressed up in your best (rented) tux, stand outside her house with a boombox, and not get the girl–just lose your deposit when her dad’s rottweiler took a bite of your polyester rent-a-pants.
It sucks to be a mouse in a rat world.
I hope this was one in a set. That just maybe, in some better thrift store–Salvation Army maybe, they have standards–you could buy a pair of happy mice that were having a good life. Not because I needed to justify the artist’s work, to provide two parts yin to this poor guy’s yang, but mostly so that I didn’t have to live with the vague notion that the artist was going to go off himself in some terribly kitschy manner. Maybe with a macrame belt or something.
I think it turned out she really didn’t like bow ties after all. Also, whiskers, or deep facial scoring, lines caused by years of sorrow? You be the judge.
How can so much tragedy fit in such a little guy :(
Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar