I don’t just watch art classes—I investigate them. If you’ve ever wondered who’s pausing a tutorial 87 times to identify a mystery purple pencil, it’s me. My desk looks like a paint-splattered crime scene, and brown craft paper is both my notepad and my witness protection program.

The printer works. I don’t know how, but it does. My daughter made a whistle that screams, I made ghost cats that don’t, and the desk hasn’t vibrated out the door yet. Miracles happen.

How my “15-minute setup” turned into a three-hour foam excavation and a mild identity crisis.

The sky’s falling, the Amazon boxes are winning, and I’m hanging on by a thread of sarcasm. Another Disorderly Studio day — part storm, part meltdown, all mood.

It started with one duck and spiraled into a full-blown coup. Nine judgmental rubber ducks now run my studio while I pretend to work. There’s a candle called Terror, a porcelain hat, and a suspicious lack of impulse control. Welcome to The Duck Army Chronicles.

I lose socks faster than sanity on laundry day—but my art supplies? They breed. Somewhere, a paintbrush is laughing.

Welcome to my chaotic corner of the internet—where glitter is evil, ice machines melt under pressure, and the squirrels at my mountain place act like they’ve been double-fisting espresso shots. If you came here for calm, bless your heart—you’re as lost as a cat in a dog park on a rainy day, drenched, defiant, and pretending it was all part of the plan..

I said this wasn’t going online. And yet, here it is. Welcome to Disorderly Studio—where impulsive decisions become content.