Process Design

Albert Camus, the original king of philosophical side-eye, once said, “Nobody realizes that some people expend a tremendous energy trying to be normal.” And let’s be honest, he wasn’t wrong. Being normal is basically a full-time job with no pay, no benefits, and a boss you can’t standsociety.

Think about it: people wake up and instantly slip into Normal Mode™. The right outfit. The right smile. The correct polite laugh that doesn’t sound too unhinged but also not too cold. Even your coffee order ends up being a performanceheaven forbid you get a triple shot lavender oat milk latte without someone arching an eyebrow. To blend in is to audition, every day, for a role you didn’t even want.

Meanwhile, your real selfpossibly a charming, mildly unhinged wind-up toy of joy (see: that blue chomping toy up there)is trapped backstage, tapping its foot, waiting to come out and dance. But nooo, we’re busy pretending to enjoy office small talk about printer jams and the weather. It’s no wonder Camus compared the effort to tremendous energy. It’s like doing emotional CrossFit in business casual.

The rakish truth? “Normal” is a myth. A glittery mirage. Everyone you think is normal is just hiding their own deliciously messy chaos. That mom at school pickup? Secret death-metal fan. Your boss? Writes fanfiction about competitive bread baking. Even your neighbor with the perfect lawn probably practices karaoke in the garage. The world runs on little rebellions, and the sooner you embrace yours, the less exhausted you’ll be.

So what’s the alternative? Stop auditioning. Retire from the soul-draining theater of “normal” and give your inner eccentric a stage. Wear the neon socks. Laugh too loud at the joke. Post that weird poem. Adopt the life strategy of a wind-up chattering teeth toy: unapologetically make noise and move in your own direction.

Look, we’ve all been there. You’re standing in front of your closet, staring down the endless sea of safe choices—shirts that actually cover things, jeans that politely say, “I pay my taxes and go to bed at 9.” But somewhere in your gut, a little voice whispers, “What if today, I just… didn’t?”

That’s the spirit we’re channeling here. The rakish, cheeky vibe that says, “I woke up like this—perfectly imperfect and maybe a little dangerous.”

First things first: the shirt. Forget the rules. A slightly-too-small, slightly-too-cropped tee doesn’t just show off the work you’ve put into your abs—it tells the world that you’re comfortable in your skin. And really, that’s the secret sauce. Confidence isn’t about wearing the most; it’s about wearing exactly what feels like you, even if it’s less than the neighborhood association would approve of.

Next stop: tattoos. Your body is your billboard, so make it a gallery. A colorful sleeve that practically yells louder than your playlist? Instant conversation starter. An inner-arm script that makes people tilt their heads to read it? Bonus points for mystery. Tattoos aren’t just ink; they’re invitations to curiosity. They say, “I’ve got stories, but you’ll have to earn them.”

And let’s not forget the hair. Messy, tousled, and full of attitude—like you ran your hands through it while laughing at your own private joke. That’s the energy. It’s effortless rebellion: a wink to the world that says you’re not trying too hard… even if you secretly spent twenty minutes perfecting the ‘just rolled out of bed’ masterpiece.

The charm of this whole look is that it’s equal parts confident and playful. It doesn’t scream for attention—it lets attention wander over naturally, then smirks when it does. It’s the fashion equivalent of a raised eyebrow across the room: subtle, daring, and fully aware of its effect.

So here’s the takeaway, dear reader: embrace the rakish energy. Whether it’s through a cheeky crop top, a flash of ink, or just the way you carry yourself, let the world see that you’re delightfully unbothered. Life’s too short for boring outfits or hiding your sparkle. Pop that shirt, strike that pose, and let your inner rebel do the talking.

Ah, Heathers (1988). The cinematic cocktail of bubblegum and cyanide that dared to ask: “What if high school cliques were as lethal as they felt?” Directed by Michael Lehmann and dripping with razor-sharp satire, this cult classic remains a wickedly perfect snapshot of teen angst gone nuclear. Literally.

Let’s set the scene: Westerburg High, where popularity is currency and the Heathers three pastel-clad apex predators rule the cafeteria like it’s their personal Versailles. Enter Veronica Sawyer, a smart, sardonic misfit who’s just self-aware enough to know she’s sold out. She’s in the club, she’s wearing the scrunchies, but her soul is basically screaming “I’d rather be writing in my diary.”

Then comes J.D., the leather-jacketed wildcard with a smirk that whispers, “I’ve read Nietzsche, and also, I might blow up your school.” Their meet-cute? A cafeteria showdown that quickly spirals into a murder spree disguised as ironic justice. Nothing says romance like spiking your frenemy’s morning OJ with drain cleaner!

What makes Heathers endure isn’t just the body count it’s the tone. It’s that rakish, cheeky, “I can’t believe they said that” vibe that makes you cackle even as things get wildly inappropriate. The film skewers the absurdity of high school social politics with croquet mallets, literal bombs, and dialogue so sharp it could cut glass. Lines like “What’s your damage?” and “I love my dead gay son!” have become immortal in the pantheon of dark comedy.

It’s also a love letter to misfits. Underneath the murder, mayhem, and Big Fun concerts, Heathers is a story about rejecting the tyranny of fitting in. Veronica has to wade through fire, explosions, and multiple fake suicides to realize that maybe the only way to survive teenagehood is to torch the hierarchy preferably without actual explosives.

Watching it now is a time warp into the big-haired, shoulder-padded 80s, but the satire hasn’t aged a day. High school is still a jungle; the predators just carry smartphones instead of croquet mallets. The charm of Heathers lies in its audacity: it’s a film that winks at you, flirts with disaster, and then hands you the dynamite.

If Instagram had a glamorous great-grandmother, her name would be Beauty Parade. For just 25 cents, this mid-century magazine promised “The World’s Loveliest Girls,” wrapped in sass, red lipstick, and just the right amount of leg. One such cover, painted by the legendary Peter Driben, is a masterclass in cheeky charm and cultural nostalgia.

Here she is: a radiant blonde in red lingerie, one hand on the floor, the other holding a mysterious green mask, as if she’s inviting us to a masquerade we can only imagine. A flower crown tops her golden curls, and strappy scarlet heels complete the look. The cover proudly lists its wares: Showgirls. Models. Pin-Ups. Pure vintage delight.

But these covers weren’t just pretty pictures. In the 1940s and 50s, illustrated pin-up art shaped perceptions of beauty and style. Before glossy photo shoots dominated magazines, artists like Driben created idealized visions of the “modern” woman: playful, independent, and always camera-ready—even without a camera. These images were aspirational and a little risqué, but never crude. They hinted at glamour while staying just shy of scandal, which is exactly why they were so adored.

The cultural role of covers like Beauty Parade was huge. During wartime, pin-ups became morale boosters, decorating lockers and barracks, offering a dose of charm and hope. In peacetime, they influenced fashion, from high-waisted shorts to bold lipstick shades. The illustrated covers also gave artists the freedom to exaggerate elegance, elongate a leg here, perfect a curl there—ideal beauty through a painter’s daydream.

There’s also a certain joy in their hand-painted quality. Today, we scroll past thousands of filtered selfies, but something about the warm, saturated brushstrokes of a Driben cover feels more intimate. It’s not just a picture; it’s a wink in your direction, a playful invitation into a world where glamour is effortless and always within reach.

Ah, the golden age of office humor—where cubicles didn’t exist, typewriters clacked in rhythmic harmony, and filing a report could somehow turn into a slapstick routine. Enter Felix Andrews, the cartoonist behind this cheeky little gem currently making ripples on Tumblr. With 483 likes, 73 shares, and one brave soul leaving a comment, this single-panel cartoon has tapped into our collective fascination with vintage humor—and our modern skepticism about it.

The cartoon in question? A black-and-white drawing featuring a woman bent over a filing cabinet, a man leering from behind, and the caption: “Well, well, Miss Voltz, I can see you’re not a company girl!!” The workplace, identified as the “Panty Company,” is clearly the setup for a gag that balances on the edge between playful and, by modern standards, wildly inappropriate.

Back in the mid-20th century, this kind of humor was standard fare. Workplace cartoons often ran in men’s magazines, newspapers, and even office bulletin boards, reveling in a world where the secretary trope was both a comedic device and a cultural norm. Felix Andrews excelled in giving audiences just enough wink-wink humor to make them laugh without (at the time) sparking outrage.

But times have changed. Modern workplace humor lives under the watchful eye of HR, and rightly so. While this cartoon feels like a harmless relic to some, it also reflects the gender dynamics and power imbalances of the era. The joke hinges on the objectification of a female employee, which today would be a clear example of inappropriate workplace behavior and a lawsuit waiting to happen.

So, why are we still sharing it? Because history is complicated, and humor is a mirror. Vintage cartoons like this remind us of how far workplace culture has come—from the days of offhand comments and “company girls” to an era where employees have actual protections and, ideally, respect.

That doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate the artistry and the social context. Felix Andrews had a knack for capturing the rhythm of office life—complete with filing cabinets, slightly frazzled bosses, and sly innuendo. His cartoons are like time capsules, giving us a peek into a world where humor was bolder, cruder, and blissfully unaware of HR compliance training.

In the end, sharing this cartoon today isn’t about endorsing its message but about starting a conversation. It’s a reminder that humor evolves, workplaces evolve, and even the most cheeky filing-cabinet jokes have a place—in history, if not the breakroom.

You know it’s winter magic season when even a rabbit can make you jealous of its lifestyle. Picture this: a plump little bunny, bundled in a perfectly tailored jacket, backpack slung over one shoulder, standing in the soft glow of a lantern-lit cottage. Snowflakes drift around him like he’s the star of a slow-motion holiday commercial, and behind the frosty window sits a Christmas tree glittering with ornaments and the promise of cookies. If that doesn’t scream “peak seasonal envy,” I don’t know what does.

This cheeky little winter traveler looks like he’s either on his way to a secret woodland soirée or about to deliver the tiniest, most fashionable package in the history of Christmas. He’s holding something in his paws—maybe a letter, maybe a snack, maybe the contract for his next Hallmark movie. I like to think it’s a map to all the best cocoa spots in town, because bunnies with backpacks are clearly on important missions.

The scene itself is straight out of a storybook. A narrow path curves past the snow-dusted cottage, lampposts casting a golden glow on the drifts, and pine trees decorated as if the forest itself decided to get festive. It’s the kind of winter evening that makes you want to wrap up in a scarf three sizes too big, grab a mug of peppermint hot chocolate, and pretend your inbox doesn’t exist.

And let’s talk about the cottage. Whoever lives there clearly has their cozy game on lock: warm light spilling from the windows, a Christmas tree tucked in the corner, and probably a fire crackling inside. You know there’s a plate of gingerbread cookies on that table, and I’d bet my last candy cane the bunny knows it too. He’s got that look—half innocent, half plotting a very adorable break-in.

This image is everything I want for the holiday season: a dash of nostalgia, a sprinkle of magic, and a reminder that winter is best enjoyed with a little mischief. Forget adulting—be the bunny. Slow down, wear the cute jacket, savor the quiet snowy paths, and maybe show up uninvited to a cozy cottage or two (preferably ones with cookies).

So, next time you’re trudging through your own holiday to-do list, picture this bunny. He’s not stressed about shopping or baking or whether he left the lights on. He’s just out here living his best storybook life, and honestly, I think he’s got it all figured out.