Once, in Junior High I believe, I was bored and couldn't sleep so I got out my sketchpad. I'm sitting up in bed, got my desk lamp bent over me so that I can see what I'm doing. And I'm doodling and doodling and sketching nothing in particular, just wasting some time until I get tired. Then inspiration hits. In my head I can sea clearly what it is. How each line will lay. And for the first (and really only time in my life) my hand begins to xerox my the image in my mind's eye stroke for stroke. It was beautiful. A piece to behold and treasure. There was Scooby-Doo mounting Velma doggy-style. She on all fours, her orange tube socks pulled up to her knees, her Hanna-Barbara breasts hanging like perfect pendulums. Scoob's mischievous grin. It was fucking perfect. and immediately I was ashamed that not only had I drawn this, but it was so perfect. I knew that it must be disposed of immediately for fear of corrupting the world. This picture was my Kubla Khan, however I had been allowed to finish it, unlike Coleridge and his mid-poem interruption. I don't know how I knew it would unleash terror on the world, but it pulsed through every fiber of my being: ""The picture must be destroyed." It was late though, and I couldn't burn it, and dared not risk putting it in the trashcan - even if it was torn into tiny bits and buried below everything else. So I ate it. That was the best thing I ever drew... Ev.Er.