Critical by Mao Yanyang

Another casting call, another hallway lined with dour faced fowl. This group was particularly miserable looking – Rufous-headed Hornbills, Yellow-crested Cockatoos, Negros Bleeding-hearts – on and on, one pathetic species after another. I took another long drag on my cigarette. Who the fuck cares, just die already.

I was still drunk from another epic binger and in a particularly foul mood. I got the part. Wasn’t much – enough for another week or two of fuzzy memories. The artist told me I exuded melancholy. We hooked up afterward. I thought about asking him, “Who’s melancholy now, bitch?” but decided against it. Let him have his delusions, and I’ll stick to mine.

More of Mao Yanyang’s work can be found here: www.maoyanyang.com

- Monk Eastman
Bridging the Art Gap