Hello Elsa,

I must apologize for not adhering to the Selfie Act of 2014 which mandates that I take multiple photos of myself and send them to you immediately. I’ve been too busy being comfortable amongst the chaos that is Life. But with the new year, comes a new start. I hope these will suffice, for now. Safe travels!

Timmy Selfies_1




x marks the spot_graphs

In this past quarter we’ve noticed a spike in washing tables, holding strong at 85%. 10% of the time is spent complaining about it, knowing full well that “ya do what ya gotta do,” “it could be worse,” “you’ve got a roof over your head and food in your belly” and “blindly accepting the status quo could just save your soul from a trip to a mental institution.” Ambition levels, on a separate scale, of course, are through the roof (this is a trend that despite time and life struggle variables seems to never really change, and in some cases, gets stronger). We call this the Hope Factor. This, when polling our focus group, just doesn’t seem to make any sense. Apparently, the pain associated with multiple failures when trying to “succeed” again and again isn’t their cup of tea. In fact they don’t drink tea, carbonated beverages are more their thing anyway. They later forgot about the survey and went out to get some popcorn.

2% of the time is wasted upon viewing flesh-toned-pixels melting and corroding in piles, pretending there’s a personal connection just to get through it. When probed, stimulation is rarely achieved, because our sensors “know too much.” The other 3% is a myriad of intense thoughtfulness, problem solving (on an accurate scale), daydreaming, heartache, the making of new friends and/or acquaintances, and various cat petting.

There is however another trend that is growing at an alarming rate, much to the chagrin of The Man, the creation of content. It’s skyrocketed from a measly 6-7.5% into 72%! We can attribute this to a few things: the reading of and inspiration from other content, a total lack of respect for The Man, a resurgence of power, love/lust, that prefrontal cortex thing everyone talks about, the absolute demand for a better life for one’s family, and the Hope Factor.

We hope you’ve enjoyed this study and perhaps we’ll make eye contact IRL! As always, feel free to click buttons as a sign of your approval, (this data will then be pulled and tucked safely away in storage containers for further analyzation). You guys are the best!


Quality Unified Assuredness Department

12/18/2014 3:08AM

mama, baby sarah, gram laughing


A co-worker once told me that it took the sickest, dirtiest jokes in order to get me to laugh, to crack a smile. I suppose in a sense she was right. This same co-worker also told me, on an unrelated occasion, that I reminded her of “an old style saloon worker, a Spanish whore” when I had leftover lip stain on my mouth and my hair was pulled up in a high ponytail. This was meant as a compliment; no, truly! I laughed pretty loudly at that, in a sort of nervous but appreciative manner. Unfortunately, I was self-conscious of my red mouth for the rest of the day.


I once knew this girl in middle school that was pretty and popular and always had a gaggle of friends. From where I stood she seemed to have it made. I knew she really didn’t because we both went to the same shitty public school in a dead town. Due to a “70s-open-concept-floor plan” we didn’t have any walls, just partitions and stained floors. Once a teacher failed a student. The student retaliated by throwing her into one of those partitions, collapsing it whole, causing a thundering BANG! This is the same place where one of my fellow classmates beat up our principal outside by the flagpole.

In any case, this adolescent beauty queen wasn’t perfect either and I’d find that out later when I heard her laugh. Her particular laugh was oddly nasally and as she threw her head back in that way that confident girls do, she always seemed to be on the verge of asphyxiation. Nearly choking on her own beads of saliva, she was always gasping for air. I may have been ugly but her laugh was hideous.


One time I was out in The Woods and decided I would enter a lit cabin. It looked approachable from the outside and I was young and curious so no harm, no foul. A man stood before a large painting of snakes, hyenas surrounding him, reading aloud from a long scroll. Distressed by his own words, and a secret code that he and the hyenas had had between them and that I was unaware of at the time, he began to chop his limbs off. Blood splattered unto the floor and the hyenas cackled. I, like an idiot without a following, was frozen and silently wet faced. One of the hyenas glued him back together and made their way outside, bits of him trailing behind them. Someone grabbed a bucket and a mop. Only when my own blood began to shed did I realize that the man was merely wearing a costume, for he was a hyena in his own right, cackling at me.


It was around Valentine’s Day and I was feeling weird. I bought myself a giant teddy bear at the local drugstore. My boyfriend, at the time, sighed (I STILL DON’T KNOW WHY). We got into his car and he started the engine. I made the bear do cute little dances and I gingerly touched its satin bow. I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed… My boyfriend said he was worried about me. I just thought he was being a little bit boring.


Sometimes people expect you to laugh, even need you to, but sometimes what they’ve just said or done doesn’t warrant that. In this case, you can nod, smile and say, “Yeah, that’s funny.” …And sometimes it really is funny but you don’t feel like laughing.


One time I went to check on my mother who was sleeping but not feeling well. I either scared or annoyed the cat sleeping beside her head and she ran across my mother’s face creating large, diagonal cuts on her cheek. I held her as she gasped and as a knee-jerk reaction started laughing uncontrollably. The situation was so odd and I was scared. My mother was confused and so was I. Not long after I cleaned the wounds and bandaged her up. Work at the grocery store the next day was interesting, to say the least.


We laugh when we should be crying. We cry when we should be laughing. We can’t force tears out when we want to and we can’t contain giggles when we need to.


I went to see monsters and superheroes with a friend and his daughter yesterday and I was not disappointed. I ended up carrying her tiny toddler body for the majority of the time and hope that some sort of muscle tissue will become of it. She waved to the crowd, had small temper tantrums, drank juice and created abstract body art on my neck with a ballpoint pen. In this moment in time I could feel my eyes aging and it felt normal. She extracted some of the most genuine laughter out of me in a long time and she didn’t even try.


If we ever meet again my first reaction will be to laugh, I think.

timmy pukes and wakes us up 10:22:2014

The old spinster-maid sat me atop the refrigerator and told me, “This is gonna be a while, for I am not a witch but a cat…”


My face contorted awkwardly in confusion due to my misaligned jaw. She waved it off and continued.


“…And that’s most likely the problem! Y’see, my autumn of discontent bears a striking resemblance to wires getting crossed and sparking against each other from time to time and then eventually breaking down the whole motherboard.”


She wasn’t making a lick of sense but I stayed because I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I noticed she really didn’t have any thumbs.


“For whatever reason, I had quite the visceral reaction to His leaving. I dry heaved in the bathtub for what seemed like an hour and a half but I didn’t cry none, because that was beneath me – ”


I wanted to intercept but she fed me a piece of dry toast to keep my lips from moving.


“A year passed and He came back into town. I wanted to introduce myself but I had lost all the confidence I had momentarily maintained in my early twenties. He spat on me, called me a slut, and walked away!”


I stopped eating the toast and looked up at her. Images and texts were starting to perform an unwieldy dance in my head and I wasn’t sure if they were appropriate for the occasion but were nonetheless entertaining.


“The crazy thing was we had no idea what each other looked like! We were just figments of each other’s imagination!”


I wanted to scream. I wanted to get down. This woman would be the death of me, I was sure of it. Boredom alone could kill all of her hanging plants. I tried to wrap my head around the semantics of what she had just said for a moment but then thought the better of it.


“He went on to marry some redhead with more presentable draping…”

“Collarbones?” I asked.

“Oh sure,” she said looking down at her fat knees, as she cut a potato.


A silence lingered for a bit and thinking that meant an end to her stories, I started to slip down. Startled by its reprisal, I froze.


“All in all, it was good fun I suppose. Responding to ghosts made me think, kept me motivated,” she sighed.


I sighed too. I just wanted another piece of toast.


“But you can’t touch the air between your fingers and you can’t keep it caged like a beast neither, it’d just bite your hand anyway.”


She lifted me off the refrigerator and gently put me down on the floor. I went to bed and tried to forget ever meeting her.

I had a dream and we were in it. I went downstairs and found you in the kitchen, talking on a house phone, the old wire cord getting wrapped around you. Suddenly you lost your train of thought in the conversation as we made eye contact. I came to you and gave you a hug. You embraced me warmly and wouldn’t let go, the phone still preoccupying your ear.

“Uh, do you want to come upstairs and see my cat?” you asked, keeping the transmitter away from your mouth.

I answered in the affirmative and walked towards the living room, as you tried to wrap things up on the other end of the line. My mother was on the couch and asked me where I was going.

“Upstairs…his uh, cat died. I’m going to see his dead cat,” was all I could muster on short notice.

I proceeded to collect my belongings, collect myself. I went upstairs. You met me there.

10/18/2014 8:45AM

My cat has a Twitter now. I haven’t had much luck with it in the past (ex. hackers making my account post weird porno, overall disgust at the 140 character medium, boredom) so I’m making her do all the work. Look, she’s got free room and board not to mention the all-she-can-eat meals… Anyway, I got a cool t-shirt at the Wham City Comedy show last night held @ Psychic Readings.


Follow Chloe @chloepinknose 

BetsyandChlö custom tees are one-of-a-kind, wearable, bits of art!

Exciting news – I’ve just launched a custom t-shirt line on Etsy! Go check it out and tell your friends! Below is the byline:

The Beginning:

2012: Nudged by boyfriend to look at Facebook friend who fabric paints hats
Halloween 2013: Day of the Dead themed costume, including hand-painted turtleneck inspires further fabric painting…
December 2013: Holiday tees for friends and family! Decides Etsy could be beneficial.
December 16, 2013: Opens up Etsy shop!
Sarah Samways is a mixed media artist/writer/investigator/experimentalist. Born and bred in Rhode Island, she is an SAIC (School of the Art Institute of Chicago) alumni. Currently, she lives with Pink Nose and Babushka. She can be contacted at ssamways [!at] saic.edu.
BetsyandChlö is her custom designed tee line. Inspired by ugly christmas sweaters, refrigerator kid art, and all things sickeningly sweet, Sarah implements puffy fabric paint and cotton/blend t-shirts to create one-of-a-kind wearable bits of art.