Last Sunday I turned into an Oyster Monster. I wish I was a better writer to add tension to this story, but the plain facts are I am fish allergic, which I sometimes need to ignore, so I got intoxicated, spending some days in bed. Those days I could do nothing but imagine stuff. Like what would happen if I was brave enough to stand up and try to go downstairs. I had already fainted at night, so I imagined I went to the stairs on my own and fainted in the try, falling down and stupidly dying as an agonizing Oyster Monster. The most pathetic of it all was that my later thoughts were about all the profiles I opened in every existing social network in the Internet, and I was truly worried about who would make them die accordingly, with all the honours I deserve. Then I sadly realized why Tim Burton is Tim Burton and I am not. He does much better in Oysters issues. And I thought of drawing The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy for this post, but I want to leave it for the post about twin books (we have 2 copies of several books). So I decided to draw the wooden and iron stairs that lead to the bedroom, dresser and loo at 53m2. In the end these stairs are one of the things I am now living with, that I have quite mixed up feelings about. You know why.