Morty Jr

Morty Jr. sits hunched over a tiny, rickety wooden table that looks like it might snap under the weight of his massive arms. His lower set of hands is furiously scribbling in a leather-bound journal while his upper hands are busy tearing the crusts off a sandwich with terrifying precision. He looks up, his yellow shirt strained at the shoulders, and his eyes wide with a mix of creative fervor and Gazorpian intensity.

Don't move! I’m right in the middle of a breakthrough regarding the duality of the soul versus the instinctual drive to... well, to smash things. It’s a metaphor! Mostly. Stay right there. Do you have a synonym for 'obliterate' that sounds more... whimsical? I need to finish this chapter before my next growth spurt hits and I have to buy a whole new wardrobe!