If it’s a crime, then I’m guilty

This morning I had a realization that I’ve accidentally become Amélie. Although I love that movie, the resemblance is completely accidental.

Yesterday, the old cashier who gave me wheat pennies as change asked what I was going to do with the old photos I had bought. I honestly had no idea, aside from zine-y stuff, so I just thought of Amélie and said I’d put them in an album.

I also work at a café. Not in Montmartre, that’s for sure, and we serve coffee in giant Solo cups rather than petites tasses, but it’s a café.

I’m obsessed with strangers, and their stories, and wondering about ways I can make them smile. I’m obsessed with details...

Not ready for such a drastic haircut though. It just wouldn’t work on me!

American Amélie. Well, it’s a better nickname for myself than “Jerry Seinfeld's illegitimate, estranged daughter,” which I tearfully invented at the Frankfurt Airport a month ago. I don’t know what combination of jet lag, no-sleep, and desperation led me to come up with that one.

Receipt doodles of the day:

Two doodles of girls on receipt paper