Sometimes, I’m in my dread chair hard at work (this is a euphemism for my exoskeleton, not my genitals) trying to draw comics like this one in Abode Photoship, and there’ll be this one little black line giving me ridiculous trouble, ruining the image as a whole. I trim it, and tweak it, and rotate it, but it unceasingly fails to fit into my hideous vision. Soon do I realize the line for what it is: a disappointing mistake. A feverish dream, at best.

So, eventually, I go into the line’s layer, a calm smile on my face.

“Oh gee, what’s going on, boss?” It asks me, tilting its awful contours inquisitively.

“We’re going on a trip, you and I,” I reply, in the friendliest voice I can manage.

“To another layer?” It asks, excitedly, wiggling its horrible shape.

“That’s right, line. Say goodbye to your friends, won’t you?”

As I cut the line from its layer as gently as I can, it waves goodbye at the other lines and shapes, who don’t wave back, as they’re busy doing their jobs. We go, far as I can manage, away from the completed work, into an empty space. I paste the misbegotten line into a brand new layer, here, in this white, tranquil field.

“Gee it’s so empty here,” it remarks, twisting its terrible body here and there. “You sure this is the best place for me, boss?”

It takes a moment for me to reply. “I know it is, little line. I know it is.”

Then I delete the layer.

Come Monday, I could use your help breaking the news to the other lines. I can’t ever do it with a straight face.