Burnout is real

I’m am exceptionally disillusioned with politics right now – this thing is taking sooooo long and the UK just gave old Boris a big wet smooch. I mean, we didn’t think Donald could win, but he did. We’re counting on him losing again, but maybe it’s more likely he won’t. And whoever wins, half of us will be flipping out and having a huge panic attack as if it’s not our fault. We are a species not very good at looking at the big picture, after all.

But here’s what I never get burned out on. My torch. I get to use it to pop bubbles in the epoxy resin I pour over my crazy little assemblages of ephemera.

This Sucrets tin has an initial layer of resin curing around a Shrinky Dink lady smoking in her mid-century magazine living room. I’m not sure yet where we’re going with that. But lotsa smokers sucked on Sucrets back in the day.
This battered Belmont Household Nail Box features two models presenting a painting of some mountains in China above a layered pool of jewelry fragments and glitter. The final layer of resin covers some tissue paper scraps that help the glitter not be too shiny. You know, keep your light under that barrel.

You might fairly ask, “but yrmama, what kind of passtime is this nonsense for an over-educated white lady like you? Can’t you get a job? Or play golf?” And yrmama will calmly remind you, “ars longa, vita brevis, bitch,” even though she can’t really speak Latin. Because no one can you ding-dong.