Kate Reilly is a pop culture tragedy: Kleopatra eyeliner; Bettie Page bangs; knotted, tangly hair; saggy jeans with worn-out, patched and repatched ass; second-hand t-shirts; and enough kitsch memorabilia stacked in piles and hanging on walls to warrant admission charges.
As it turns out, she is also my best friend.
It may seem strange how it should take 31 issues of a comic about my life for her to make a debut, and a theoretical one at that. But then, you'd have to know her.
Kate is… special. She tries harder than I do to manufacture reality. Well, that isn't so hard as I don't try at all; I'm just crazy. But Kate molds her world, as best she can, to something she can cope with. One tactic, when the world turns to shit, is to avoid dealing with anyone or anything that isn't absolutely necessary to day-to-day survival. You know, things like gas bills, car insurance, and friends that live several states to the west.
Sigh.
But today is her birthday, and contact is unavoidable. Mwahaha! Take that you awful, awful best friend, you!
Kisses and all that.