The 2D Ad­ven­tures of Stick Woman



The stick­man side of me likes old-school emoti­cons and two-di­men­sional sto­ry­lines.

She has no an­kles, knees, wrists, or el­bows; i.e., fewer wor­ries about arthri­tis or sprains, but isn’t par­tic­u­larly flex­i­ble.

She also lacks op­pos­able thumbs, so turn­ing a key is dif­fi­cult. How­ever, she’s ex­cep­tion­ally gifted at bi­vari­ate statis­tics, com­par­ing ap­ples to or­anges, and giv­ing the peace sign ges­ture.

My in­ner stick­man can’t tell the dif­fer­ence be­tween moun­tains, tri­an­gles, and her dress.

She curls her hair with ex­actly two rollers and can re­place an eye with a pe­riod if nec­es­sary. Fur­ther­more, she never learned how to tie her nonex­is­tent sneak­ers, or any bow for that mat­ter.

In­ci­den­tally, my stick­man heart is the Valen­tine’s Day kind, no sep­tum or valves here.

This leaves plenty of space inside for lin­ear equa­tions and jokes that fall flat. PS Her favourite whole num­ber is <3 (and >1).

My stick­man soul con­sid­ers houses, win­dows, bill­boards, pil­lows, ta­bles seen from above, side­walks, dresser draw­ers, mir­rors, ovens, re­frig­er­a­tors, dish­wash­ers, washer/dry­ers, flu­o­res­cent light fix­tures, rugs, ge­nies’ car­pets, soccer fields, space bars, spat­ula heads, robot tor­sos, mos­quito legs, and shoe boxes to all look roughly the same. She also wishes that the world were rec­tan­gu­lar, with an edge or four, so that she could re­gard it with sim­i­lar awe as she does space bars. My stick­woman self dis­likes words such as: chair­man, fire­man, busi­ness­man, and stick­man; the con­no­ta­tion of doc­tor, en­gi­neer, and pres­i­dent as pro­fes­sions for men; and, drum­roll please, the phrase hu­man race. Com­plaints and irate tirades can be di­rected to the co­or­di­nates (-1,3), found on most Carte­sian planes.

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