♫ If man is five,
Then the Devil is six,
And if the Devil is six,
Then God is seven. ♫ ♪

And this, my precious little sexpenguins, is the writer/artist commentary for la Chica Fantasma page number Seven.

oh hey wouldja lookit that — it's a Monkey

And that is a monkey gone to Heaven.
Haha I just called you a “sexpenguin” and you just sat there and took it.

Just so we’re all clear on that.

You can tell ol’ MC Monk-Master Key here is in Heaven cos look at the deep sense of inner peace and serenity his countenance is so obviously conveying — no trace of the cognitive dissonance his brain would usuall want to flip out into a screeching poop-flinging one-monkey shit-blitz over due to the honkingly obvious dichotomy sitting spang-medial between where he is versus his natural state of subscribing to a spiritual worldview founded upon theological noncognitivism sprinkled liberally with a denial of omnibenevolence.
After all, dude’s got a halo — you don’t get called on up into the rarified air of Elysium and get given a halo if you’re gonna get all shit-pitchy about it. That simply would not do.

One would assume.

Hmm, no, wait… nah… maybe that’s actually melancholia at play upon his face, not serenity.

There are those who would see this as being merely a photo of a stuffed monkey and some numbers… and oh how sad for them and their lack of apperception. But all art is subjective, and oftentimes an individual’s reactions in regards to and responses toward art can say a lot about what’s driving their engine through life.

My engine’s a bit broken. A trifle sputtery at times. Occasionally even recalcitrant. It’s a bit more prone than most to ruminate upon things like this simian-tinged instantiation of interconnectedness vs inclusive-interaction-with that I’m p̶u̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶a̶s̶s̶ spinning out of the ether as I’m typing it.
But it’s an engine that is getting me where I need to go.

This is no quirky word-working in the guise of mere monkeyshines at play here. This is me avoiding having to discuss this page via cluttering up this commentary with as much monkeying around as I can muster. Just look at how much BS I’ve already managed to shovel through your brain today already, and yet you’re still battling valiantly on through it all, in the hopes that it’s all leading somewhere worthwhile.
Do you like deli meats?
Cos if not then boy are you gonna be disappointed.

Alright, enough with the bloody monkeystuff already Maxwell, and into the metaphysics behind today’s page and…

…this blog post just lost a whole bunch of its readers, didn’t it?
You damn casualties of rapid-fire MTV-style-editing and ritalin! Come back here!

There are deli meats at the end!


…Chiquita exists in a form that is not bound to the realm of matter and the tangible. She just happens to coexist along side it. Like how a book lying on a table is not bound to that table but it’s there, existing and sitting on it, its form supported by it, anchored in space in a certain spot directly as a result of the table’s support allowing it to. Table and book are coexisting so close together that they’re touching, but they are not bound to each other. The table doesn’t know what stories the book is hiding inside of itself.
Ooooh that’s Zen.

So now I’ve got your mind sufficiently clued-up on the fundamentals of what I’m getting at (I hope), I can now state that I am but a filthy liar, for Chiquita’s relation to the realm she has manifested within is not like a book on a table at all — in actual fact, she’s rather more akin to a combination of someone looking at the table and arousing the general memory of a book being on that table in the past, which continues straight into this person actively imagining a book being there (just ploppin’ a big ol’ book down on that table but doing so only within the confines of their own mind).
That book’s interaction with the table ain’t playing out visually on our hypothetical table-starer’s Cartesian theater screen; it’s running live from in-house — a direct feed straight from Imaginarium Center.

Chiquita is not a denizen of this mortal plain, she is a transmission into it, through it. Like the radiation from an old cathode ray tube TV slowly but surely withering away your genitals but never being detected by our physical senses. But unlike the TV, Chiquita is possessed of both sentience and free will. So, yeah, she could conceivably sit in the bathroom with you and watch you perform your ablutions each and every morning and you’d never be any the wiser.

I don’t think she’d be at all into doing so though.
I mean, eeeeewwww.

I’ve already planted several seeds to let you fill in the rest of the blanks via what you’re already doing — imagining all the other icky and embarrassing activities an invisible resident of your house might observe you engaged in within your home.

(We know all about your proclivity for midnight fridge missions involving smoked cheese slices and deli meats. You do realise that dairy products that orange are basically a case of apes seriously messing with Nature by concocting a warped simulacrum of what is provided for us in the natural world, eh? Then again, humans have only been able to digest dairy for a comparatively tiny portion of our existence anyway. We hijacked another species’ milk to use for our own ends…
Oh gawd I’m wrapping this up right now. I’ve started to talk in-depth about daaaaiiiiry agaaaiiinnn…)