You know it’s late and you’ve been creating under the gun waaaay too much lately when gryf-frogs suddenly seem like a great idea. I blame lyosha.

By the way, I would like to acknowledge to the universe and everything that James was fabulous during the whole Con, and did not so much as bat an eyelash, even when the fursuit parade went by. Couldn’t have done it without him. He ran off prints, he hung art, he manned the table when I needed to hit the bathroom or was piled up with sketchbooks. He was the one who goaded me into the wombat self-portrait. He was a comrade in adversity when the guys in the room next door thought the door between our rooms was the bathroom and began hammering on it and yelling about his need to piss. At 2 AM. And damn, it’s nice to have someone that you can exchange a brief, wordless, oh-my-god-did-you-see-what-just-walked-by glance with occasionally. As much for some of the denizens of Philadelphia as for the people wearing fox heads and “Got Yiff?” T-shirts, mind you.

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