🦆 The Rubber Duck Army Chronicles

A gripping tale of a rubber duck army, and one woman trying to outsmart her own studio.

It started with one duck. Now there are nine. They’ve formed a union. Yeah, I know it rhymes — shut up, it’s funny.

They sit around my studio like tiny supervisors, silently judging every unfinished project and impulsive purchase. The biggest one has claimed my desk. He’s been staring at me all week with those black, beady eyes.

So fine — he’s the Official Glasses Holder now. When I’m not wearing them, he guards them like they’re part of his pension plan. At least one of us has job security. I gave him a fancy porcelain hat. I thought it’d look good on him. It didn’t. It looks stupid. But I don’t care — it was still funny.

And the candle sitting next to him in the photo is called Terror. Fitting, really. It’s from Magic Candle Company — smells like cinnamon and nostalgia. I just take a whiff like I’m huffing paint and move on with my day.

And that’s how we get to the 3-D printer. Well… not really. But since my mind is as disorderly as my studio, it makes sense that nothing makes sense. Does that make sense? No? Didn’t think so.

My “waiting room” ideas refused to sit still any longer. (That’s what I call the notes section on my phone where all my half-baked ideas go to pace until I decide which one to ruin next.) Because why wait for a manufacturer from China when I can print it at home and see if it even works?

Too many ideas. Not enough self-restraint. That’s the same logic that made me buy a massive heat-transfer press — not because I’m sane. The truth is, I probably am insane.

And no, I haven’t gone off my meds — this is just me at baseline. The real insanity is trying to write this blog at midnight again, knowing full well I should be asleep — but here I am, rambling to the internet like it’s my therapist. I still have no idea what I’m doing.

Now, back to why I think I started this specific blog.

It did start with ducks. I know there was a purpose to it, but somewhere along the way, it got lost like a sock in a dryer. Because everybody knows where wormholes exist — and they can pop up anywhere. Socks vanish into them. Ideas do too.

So, back to my spontaneous purchasing of a 3-D printer that I just “had” to have today. They say you should leave big purchases in your cart for a week. Yeah, right! That’s like saying I’ll “just look” at art supplies and, along the way, going to the pet store to look at kittens and coming home with a hamster, a turtle, and maybe a chicken.

Speaking of chickens — have you seen the adorable rooster called Binoo on Facebook? I totally want a Binoo! I’m not sure if they sell them at pet stores, but I’m checking tomorrow. Wonder if my husband will let me get a chicken. It’s gotta be a rooster, though. Binoo’s a rooster.

Did you know insanity runs in my family? Arson, murder, and lots of kids — just not many marriages to go with them. At this point, the family tree’s more of a cautionary tale with roots that dig straight into the depths of dysfunction itself. They’re all quacked up, so no wonder I’m a little “off”!

Oh yeah — what was I doing? Right. Going on a tangent.

My poor husband — I don’t know how he keeps up. I can’t keep up with myself, and my brain can’t keep up with itself.

And yeah, this is my blog, so whatever my brain wants to say, it’s gonna say. I have no filter. If you don’t like it, too bad. There’s the door. Or the exit button — top right corner of your screen, little X… yeah, that one.

No, not refresh… that reloads the chaos. You’ll end up right back here again… you know what? Just shut your damn laptop lid.

This happened last night, too! I rambled on the internet, tried to write my blog after midnight, and here we are again. History repeats itself — or maybe I’m just looping like a YouTube ad.

So yeah, this post is all over the place — welcome to Disorderly Studio. I’m your host with the most… projects, problems, and absolutely no impulse control.

The hat’s back where it belongs — it’s just a lid, really — and the candle’s still cold. The duck hasn’t moved. Just sits there, staring like he knows I’m about to buy something else I don’t need.

If he ever learns to type, I’m out of a job.

🦆 The Closing Quack

He’s not rubber. He’s emotional-support sarcasm.

Some people get therapy. I collect ducks and questionable receipts.

He’s waterproof. I’m not.

My ducks are in a row — they’re just facing different directions and one’s on fire.

The Supervisor

There once was a duck on my desk,

Whose silence was oddly grotesque.

He stared with intent,

At every cent spent —

And judged my creative mess.

One duck to rule them all.

Nine to silently disapprove.

– From the desk of Disorderly Studio, where thoughts don’t wait their turn.