2000 word month-by-month retrospecive of an entire year written in under an hour.

I didn't proof read or draft this, nor did i really fact-check. I just wrote and wrote until i got to today. So, uh. Here. You can keep it.

Day After Christmas, 2008.

It’s going to be 2009 soon and I’m glad of it. A lot of good things happened in 2008. If I tried to make a list of all the things I’ve learned this year I’d get sidetracked and start talking about sex or politics or sexual politics or comics or something. A hell of a lot happened though.

In January I was in the middle of a really really shitty time with Louisa, everything was spinning out of control and I was being kicked out of the apartment. I think I learned a lot about my sister then, what about her I could trust and, more importantly and crushingly, what I could not. I also had a crush on a girl in my writing class.

In February I started dating that girl in my writing class and learned her name, so that was cool. I officially left the apartment and have since never spent another night in the place, even when offered a place to sleep. Especially when offered a place to sleep. Every time that offer was made I wanted to break something important. But those offers didn’t come until about 3 months later. I was still in the middle of a shit storm. I’m pretty sure it had something to do with mail. Louisa and I stopped talking completely.

In March Danica and I had sex for the first time, and we started to really become seriously involved. Those were both good things. I started hanging out with Danica’s friends. I had no idea they’d be such great people. I’m thankful that I found them, I’d be worse person if it weren’t for each of them. I can’t think of a day that month that was different from any other day, I was getting used to things and went to sleep happy almost every single night. Those nights were punctuated by trips out behind Ashton Hall for cigarette breaks and bullshitting sessions. I was having fun for the first time in a long time.

In April i think Louisa and I started talking again. I started to really feel a part of my group of people, Danica and I were sailing pretty smoothly. On the third of that month was Katie’s birthday and Stephyn made weed brownies. There were two O’s in one pan. We watched Jurassic Park. It was life-changing. I spent most weekends of that month stoned.

May was a good month, except for the fact that I learned Mark wouldn’t be enrolling again in the fall. This worried me a lot. We were a tightly knit crew by then, doing everything together. We’d go downtown, ride the bus around, kick it here and there. It’s in May that everyone says “fuck it” and starts slacking off until finals week. We were no exception. We had a lot of fun.

In June I moved out of the dorms and into the Wesley Apartments with Clay, Matt and Wes. It was during this month that I really got to know those guys and expanded my social world a little. I’d go across the street to Booker’s house and hang out on the porch during the day, I’d go to Art on the other side of the alley from my building. That was a great class. I improved more as an artist in that class than I have in any other. I met Aaron toward the end of June, though we were classmates in a class of four students that entire month. We had fun. It was cool.

In July I sort of took the month off and got stoned a lot. Danica and I would passively argue about how much weed I’d be smoking, Stephyn and Mark would come down from Mt. Vernon and hang out on weekends, complain about not being able to find jobs. I miss Mark more than ever now, writing this. I’d go to the Asian market and get all sorts of oriental delights. I’m pretty sure that I met Rubio and really started to hang out with him daily in July. He’s one of the most interesting people I met that summer. I’m also pretty sure that it was in July that the dude from Booker’s house tried to get me into bed, but that could have been August. It was hot, but really pleasant. I’d wake up, kick it with Rubio and those guys a little, play Pokemon Ranger, hang out with Danica, have sex on a tiny twin bed that was raised four feet off the ground in a room with no air conditioning, take a shower, get stoned with Rubio and those guys, eat Pocky and go to sleep. I think Soul Calibur IV came out that month too. I met Michael and we began to write the book. Rubio asked me to do his album art. It was a really good feeling.

In August Danica and I had a series of hard conversations. Stephyn and Mark finally had jobs by then, they were coming down more and more often. Bumbershoot happened and I didn’t go. It was my last month in the apartment and most of the weekends were spent with Steph on our computers scouring craigslist for apartments. In mid August Steph crashed his bike. Mark had to go back to California. I haven’t seen him since. I finished my last summer class. Stephyn and I found an apartment, then decided we didn’t like it. We did this roughly five times a week. I worked out a lot in August, got to know Matt really well, started to understand the self-hating-Asian thing. It’s a lot like the self-hating-Jew thing. Ethnicity is weird. Michael and I continued to write the book.

In September we finally settled on a few places and we found a perfect one. And we fucking got it. Danica and I were doing well, but I had to go home so I missed her. Louisa and I had a meltdown concerning mail again. We stopped speaking. Stephyn and I moved in, signed the lease, Stephyn sold his car to pay first and last months’ rent and deposit and we started living together. When I left we had no furniture. Danica and I were sleeping on the floor. Danica moved into her house with the girls. I left for Indiana, looked for cars at Duke Gold’s Subaru and Volkswagen dealership. I met Duke. He was a very tan, very large man. He seemed friendly. I didn’t buy a car and just drove my old one from Indianapolis to Seattle with John and Damien. Damien is a strange person. When we got to Seattle he was dumbstruck when he saw Danica. He didn’t know she’d be as pretty as she is. I felt sort of bad for him, and I felt proud of myself. I got home and Katie was back from California with tales of Mark for all of us, Stephyn was there too. Kat and Zion were at my apartment to greet me as well when I finally pulled up the driveway. At that point there was one chair in the whole place. Nobody really minded, they were all happy to be there. I was happier that day than I’d been in a long time. John and Damien left and I started up class. I took three studio art classes and one creative writing class.

In October Stephyn began his job-search. He was already running low on cash, and it was a big worry on everyone’s mind. I didn’t want him to get evicted; I didn’t want a different roommate. I wanted him working and paying rent. I’d already paid the first six months up front. It was stressful. On top of this I had class and a girlfriend to keep up with. It hits me at one point that we’ve almost been together 9 months. My longest relationship up to that point had been 11 months, on and off and largely long distance. In October I began to fall into a lull. Things stopped being exciting. I started smoking pot again, started watching a lot of Anime. Didn’t do a whole lot of school work. Zion and Kat stopped hanging out with us as much. Steph and I painted and furnished the apartment to a state that it was livable. Louisa and I started talking again. I got the last scraps of my stuff out of her place and looked around, knowing that I was truly gone from there. It had been home for two years. It was sad. I felt loss. I hadn’t felt anything that really stuck with me in a long time.

In November it became clear that I was clinically depressed again. I stopped doing any pleasure drawing. I stopped doing any pleasure reading or writing. I didn’t update my blog. I smoked a lot of pot. I did a lot of school work. I made a lot of excuses and attempted to shroud a lot of mistakes. Danica and I hit the 9 month mark. I was tired during dinner. I got her a cookie monster hat. It was nice. Obama got elected. That was cool. Stephyn still didn’t have a job and everyone was screaming silently at him about it, asking how the search was going, talking outside his presence about it. Everyone came to me for news. I told them all to calm the fuck down. I told myself the same thing. It became clear that he would be unable to pay rent that month. I started to worry. Our apartment was just starting to look and function well. I missed Mark. I started to show some cracks, and everyone noticed them long before I brought them up.

In December I had an emotional breakdown. Or maybe it was late November. Rubio, Danica and I hatched our project for the SPU talent show, I started reading Ingersoll. Finals approached. I worked a whole hell of a lot. Stephyn finally got a job and an enormous weight was lifted. School finished and the snow fell. The city shut down, I had to go to Oak Harbor, I came back and I got on a plane for Indiana. I came back to find myself alone. I no longer know anyone here. I am no longer friends with these people. My dad is really nice, really gracious. My mom is the same. I talk with my dad, and I learn that that the owner of Duke Golds was dead. His daughter died of cancer, his wife left him and one night he went into his office and shot himself. The dealership closed. I thought about how many people i've met in passing that are now dead for horrible reasons.

The new year is coming. I don’t know what I learned. I don’t know what to resolve. I don’t know what this year meant. I normally have a pretty clear idea of what I gained and what I lost at the end of a year, but this year it’s out of focus. A lot happened, I gained a lot, but it’s all so unclear to me. I lost some things, but they’re also fuzzy. I know I’m leaving some things out, I know that there isn’t a solid line between 2008 and 2009, that I’ll be the same person on the 1st as I was on the 31st. It’s a gradation.

I can see how far I’ve come, or at least in what directions I have traveled. I can see that I am no longer where I was. I can learn things, I can deduce meanings. I can examine it. I can’t change 2008. And once I actually go through the motions of 2009, the exact same thing will probably still hold true.

Christmas resolutions: paint more

Hooray for gestural digital painting! I should do it more often!

Additionally: Bitch just got gut-punched!!



I drew a couple of comics today. It was really quite fantastic, i just jumped on it and churned out two of them. regrettably i don't have a scanner, so FUCK YOU.

I'm really, really, really bored. I leave the house and just find someplace to sit and draw, then i drive around a little until i find another place to sit and draw. Then i come home, and i sit and play cortex command. Then i drink until i sleep. And then i sleep until i get up. And then i leave the house and find a place to sit and draw.

I turn 21 ten days after the new year. I'm sort of pissed about it. This nation runs on magic numbers.


Holy-Christing-Fucks, it's December.

I haven't posted anything in over a month.

Well, i've neglected this blog. It's started to sprout little hairs in places, gotten dirty in the crevices.

Things that have been happening:
I've survived finals week. My life on the internet has been practically nonexistant because of this. I spent nights slaving away at the acetelene torch in the metal shop, making little robots for my metalworking class. I've been drawing paralell and converging lines for my perspective class, been etching my copper plate over and over again for printmaking, writing, deleting, rewriting, revising and finalizing essays for my Creative Nonfiction class. It's been tough.

In late November i came to terms with the fact that i've got a problem. I am clinically depressed. I don't know why, but i've taken some steps to get help. There were mornings when i weighed my options and decided it would be better if i just didn't wake up. There were nights when i would be awake and not know why. There were moments when i'd look at my closest friends and hate them for about five seconds, then want to jump off a bridge for thinking such awful things.

Two days ago i saw a woman in Greenlake named Jessica and i guess i'm in therapy now, 95 dollars and hour. I bought two fish, Mugen and Jin, who are separated by a clear plastic partition in their mini-tank to keep them from murdering each other.

(Pictured: My Fuckin' Fishes)

Today I went over to a friend's house and promised I'd do his album art before the week was up. I sort of wonder how the fuck i'm going to do that, considering i'm going to be in Texas in a few days and Oak Harbor until then, nursing my lady friend back to health after the surgeons rip out little pieces of her skull. I am, of course, talking about Danica getting her wisdom teeth taken out.

I have procured a Twitter from the powers that be, and i hope to also procure some magic mushrooms before the end of winter break. These things, when mixed, should yield fantastic and odd results. Stay tuned.

Speaking of the overlap of my life and the internet, i am going to start a podcast. I don't know how yet, but we've recorded a series of conversations and after i'm done editing them together and snipping out the boring bits there might be something worth releasing there. Again, stay tuned.

I'm involved in the SPU talent show doing something that, to my knowledge, has never really been done before. It's a hip-hop/spoken word/comics jam session of sorts that should, if nothing else, turn some heads. I'm excited about it, it's going to be a lot of fun.

I'm also woefully behind on an immensely daunting graphic novel project with a friend. It's not like i don't have anything i should be doing, i guess.

I'm smoking a little more than i should be. I've cut back on cigarettes considerably, but my room mate and i have gotten a wonderful, bulbous piece of glass named Burbles who we hang out with a little too often. He's to our coffee-table what a vase is to a normal, respectable person's coffee-table. All we do, it seems, is lay about, smoke pot and watch anime. Sometimes Harry Potter or documentaries. In our defense, there really is nothing quite so relaxing as a joint and a game of Pokemon Ranger for the DS. Relaxation has been in short supply, relatively speaking.

In short i'm worried about my life and where it's going. This is not news, but i am making some changes. I'm only taking ten hours next quarter and i'm going to try to create the sort of environment i had this summer, wherein i could work on important things and do the things i love at the same time.

It is very very cold here. It snowed and the city turned off. I made snow cocks. I'm still the same old person, i suppose.


Decided to write something really creepy...

Do you ever feel like you aren’t alone when nobody else is in the room? I feel that way a lot. Not in a “two sets of footprints” way or anything, but more of an ominous, “hunted” sort of way. Like if I open the closet I’ll find a man in there who didn’t want to be found just yet. Like what happened earlier.

No, no, in my experience there’s only ever been one set of footprints. I don’t believe in a God that likes long walks on the beach. If I believe in one at all then he’s probably the sort with a blackened sense of humor. Did I ever tell you that God’s trying to kill me? This is a theory that I have, anyway. I think that God’s wanted me dead for a while. Everything I’ve read in the bible suggests this. So it’s my job to call him on his joke. That’s how I stay alive, I think. I see the ironic and telling ways that god might want to kill me (to make a point or teach a fucking lesson or something) and I call it ahead of time. That way his punch line goes limp. You can’t have a three-panel strip without a strong third panel, so i can steal that strength out from under the whole plot-arc. I told that to my therapist once and his questions changed after that day, back when I still had a therapist. There’s probably something very wrong with my outlook. That’s what people say. I look in their eyes and I see some pretty hefty planks.

I like that song “Desperado”. I like it when Linda Ronstadt sings it the best. Ya know, “That’s just some people talkin’” or whatever? I like that. If you think about it long enough, it’s sort of true of everything, right? I guess if you think about anything for long enough it either gets truer or turns into bullshit. That’s one of those things that just gets truer. Maybe not to you, but to me.

Where’s the soul hang out? At this question your mind may think about those Hostess “where’s the cream filling” commercials, or the Wendy’s one that says “Where’s the beef”. And from there your mind might weave that thought into one about that Notorious B.I.G song “What’s Beef?”. This line of thinking never really got anybody anyplace special. Anyway, the soul must be… under the bones. Or something. I’m not a fuckin’ doctor, I dunno.

The human body has 206 bones. My jacket has six buttons. My feet have five toes each. There’s a number for everything. 6 billion, going on 7. When a government destabilizes, does it make a noise? Is it a roar, or a shriek? A rattle? What about when a heart breaks? Some cliché shattering of glass? A bull horn?

When a person hits a low, I think they think about elementary school. That’s what I do. I wonder what it would look like if it burned to the ground. My old school, I mean. I went to a lot of schools. I made friends each time.

What’s all this bullshit gonna look like when it’s over? I mean, like, when the world ends? Is it going to be fine, white ash? It is going to be pock-marked with craters? Blackened by wars? Red with blood? Or is it going to be beyond reckoning? Is it going to be blinked out of existence? Will God just hit an off-button? Considering that we can conquer a nation with the press of a button it wouldn’t be that surprising if God stitched an off-button into the world somewhere. I wonder where it is. The bottom of the Marianas Trench? Up in the clouds somewhere? God probably went wireless with it, all he’s gotta do is finger the remote control and we’re gone.

I’m not trying to be all “sinners in the hands of an angry god”, I’m just thinking about the end. What’s it going to matter then? There won’t be a church, won’t be a Buddha, won’t be a Democratic Party. There won’t be fascists, girls who don’t call, crazy sisters or shitty beer. I know for a fact that there won’t be a “me” anymore. There won’t be a “you” either coming up soon. But that’s a different story altogether.

No, you see, this gun in my hand, why does anybody get one of these? And this chair you’re strapped to, why are you, of all people, stuck in it? I wish I had an answer. And I guess, in a funny way, that’s my point, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t think people should have guns. You shouldn’t be here in this basement, listening to me ramble, reflecting on all the stuff that’s been important to you, all the people who did well by you and everything. You should be home with your family. You got a family? Oh. Well, it’s not for everybody. Certainly wasn’t for me. Well, you’re still young. I really hate to do this, but you understand right?

If you have anything to say, I’ve got the tape recorder going. It’ll be heard, I can promise you that. Go ahead. I’ll shut up and give you the floor for a few minutes. I guess I owe you that much, but we’ve gotta get this show on the road here pretty soon.


Too Easy

There wasn’t much to say, honestly. We’d seen tornadoes and tidal waves, we’d seen crashing cars and The Smashing Pumpkins. We’d seen the best thing since sliced bread, and we’d seen the greatest tragedy yet. We’d seen FREE IPODS and HOT SINGLES IN YOUR AREA. We thought about where it would end. We like zombie films, but we don’t have very high hopes where that’s concerned. Let a boy dream?

We’d heard about wars in the East, and those Japanese beer-vending machines. And we’d also heard of drugs to try, of music to listen to, shows to watch. We’d heard of dirty politicians and asshole news anchors. Crystal Skulls and Charles fucking Darwin. We like the Hubble Space Telescope, but we don’t know where they take astronaut applications. What kinds of references should we be acquiring?

We’d read about all sorts of cool stuff.

And, honestly, with tired eyes and ringing ears, we decided there wasn’t much left to contribute. Towel thrown.


About two months ago i caught my girlfriend doing something surprising.

To Preface:
Danica is among the smartest people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, and she had never really taken comics that seriously during the course of our relationship. She is a literature person, always trying to get me to borrow Dostoyevsky and Steinbeck books so we can talk about them. I borrow them or buy a copy and get a few chapters in. And then i get bored or lose the book, that's just the kind of person i am.

And every time i do this it becomes more and more probable that i'm the dumb one. I'm the comedic, dim-witted male who the intelligent, nuanced female puts up with on the family sitcom. My passion is tolerated and, past that, not really thought of. I understood why, and trust me: if I weren't at peace with that I would have given up a long time ago.

So it was the one of the hottest days of the summer and my apartment doesn't have air conditioning. It was late in the evening and I knew that Danica had been in my room napping for quite some time.

I usually don't feel the need to knock on my own door, but i did anyway and called out her name. There wasn't an answer, just a mumbled "humph...". I said her name again. She replied.
"you're still here?"
"yeah, come in."
The air in the room was warmer than any of the other stiflingly hot rooms in the apartment. Why hadn't she moved to a cooler place?

Danica was laying on her stomach on my bed, legs bent at the knee and feet crossed in the air, reading a comic book. I can't remember which one, but it was apparent that she'd picked through my shelves/stacks of books to find it.

So a few things went through my head in the next two seconds:
1) I was bracing, ready for the coming judgement for passing up the books she wanted me to read in favor of... this.
2) I wondered what she thought about the fact that i wanted to one day draw picture stories for other people like me.
3) I thought that maybe she taken the day trying to understand and be fair to me, trying to get her head around why anyone over 14 would enjoy and be moved by anything in my collection.
4) I got ready for the moment she would lose respect for me.

I was awaiting and dreading what was about to come: my brilliant girlfriend's judgement of the thing i love.


This was when I noticed that, when i knocked at the door and interrupted her, i'd actually pissed her off. She was involved in the story that was being propped up by my pillow. She liked.

And then, seeing that she was annoyed by my presence, only one thought was glowing in my mind.

"This is the happiest i have been in years."

So as i type this in my chair, she sits on the couch and reads the last few pages of Maus. A week ago she was reading one of my Clowes books. She jumped right into the middle of Sandman and enjoyed it. She recommends Scott Pilgrim to people now. She's read books that i own but haven't even gotten to yet. She's gone off and gotten books about comics for herself that i've never heard of.

Now, I'm not saying that she's a "Comics Person" now, I'm not saying I've somehow saved her or re-structured her passions. She still nags me to read The Brothers Karamazov and I'm still too lazy to do it. Not much has changed.

What i am saying is this: As i look back through the past few years, not only have most people reacted the way i feared Danica would, but i've failed to plant that seed in people. I haven't stirred up an interest, haven't inspired a relationship with comics in anyone. And it felt good to finally do it for someone the first time. And, on top of that, someone for whom i care so deeply.



so i guess some guy cut a motherfucker's head off on a bus or something.


anyway, i've been involved in this really neat little community for a week or so. it's called the Daily Sketch Group, and it's a drawing/painting community. A topic is chosen from a pool (that members can and do contribute to) every day at 9:00 PM, PST and everyone draws that topic.

There are literally DOZENS of people who frequent the site, and a lot of very skilled and talented people who post work there. Anyway, you should check it out, it's the kind of thing that i see evolving and getting quite large in the near future.

So, ya know. Start giving the administrator money. And your art. If you've got any.

If you don't/won't do as your told, then it's a place where you can occasionally see art that i don't post here.

so this post is for those of you who just can't quite get enough of my bullshit.



My Posts Number 40, Shawty.

So there's been nothing going on with me. Except a bike wreck.

I sat for about ten glorious minutes and was actually motivated to write some little autobigraphical sketches based on some pictures i'd taken on my cellphone. They're not very well drawn, and the lettering is how i write notes to myself, so it's hard to read. I think that adds something that a clean composition can't really accomplish.

I'd say they are just first drafts, but i like them like this. they have a deadpan Jeffery Brown feeling to them that i really like.

Anyway, i was interrupted and completely lost that groove. Imagine that you've just found a quote in a five thousand-page book that you really liked, and then you dropped the book and the binding let go of all the pages. And now you need to find that quote again in the heaping mess of loose-leaf paper on the floor.

So here they are.


Sad Thetans.

So i've come back home for a week. I hadn't really planned to be back here anytime soon and i didn't really tell anyone i was coming back until they were making the final boarding call, so i guess i surprised some people.

Coming back home is i strange sort of transformation for me. I sleep strange hours, i see people i haven't seen in a while, i hear strange news from strange people. I don't feel like myself here, like i've reinvented who i am in my new home. So it makes it a bit of a crisis of self when i come back home and remember the person i used to be, and try to act like that person again for the benefit of all my old friends.

This is sounding awfully teen-aged, i know, but often the corniest/emo-est explanation is the best one. I am not who i was, i have undergone a gradual change in what i think to be a positive direction.

I miss seattle, i miss the people and the weather and the coffee. there's something i could bitch about for hours. the coffee here is absolute garbage.

Here is a list of sex tips i wrote up a little while ago, and i never finished them.

Sex Tips from Allen:
1 - When making love to a very special lady, it is important that you never, ever stop yelling your father's name and spitting everywhere. Otherwise she may not think you are truly up for the primal task of coupling with her.
2 - Always smoke cigarettes before, during and after coitus. It will inhibit kissing, and for good reason. there are times to kiss, and there are times to copulate, and the two do not mix well. avoid eye contact like the plague.
3 - During the foreplay period, you should divulge your deepest, darkest desires in the form of impromptu banjo-driven folk music. If you're probably going to need a condom, you are just as likely to need your banjo and overalls. Preparedness is the mark of any eligible gentleman.
4 - The actual fucking should last somewhere between ten and twenty minutes, depending on how attractive the lady is. Your smoking hand should never touch the lady in question, and your off hand should never leave her mouth. This will keep her from embarassing herself and make it possible for you to pretend that her guttural vowel-sounds are actually her attempts at quoting GWAR lyrics, which will no doubt strengthen your manhood from tip to hilt. If she agrees to actually quote GWAR lyrics beforehand, then this maneuver is not necessary.

1 - Your name is Kristy. You will respond only to Kristy.
2 - Loon noises, while not reqired, may be appreciated by your partner. Goose noises, however, are right out.
3 - If you could quote some GWAR lyrics while we're doing it then i promise i'll let you breathe through your mouth. otherwise: no dice, sugar.
4 - Men love teeth. It's one of those "i say no when i mean yes" sorts of things.
5 - Twitch violently and often. Also, sleeping after sex is discouraged, so you must stay awake all night and make sure that your partner is still breathing every hour, on the hour. Men love to be woken up every hour. You're a big girl, you should know this.


New Drawings!

An avian warrior, who is pissed that you are here. Also, a helmet for one of his smaller, non-military brethren



It's interesting to think about "Rule 34". If you're unfamiliar with the term, then please stop reading now, close your computer and never turn it on again. If you aren't willing to do this, then please try to hold onto your humanity for the next couple minutes. I cannot promise that you will ever be able to sleep properly again after seeing this shit.


Alright. For those of you who didn't take my advice, Rule 34 simply states that, if one can imagine something, then somewhere somebody has created porn of it on the internet. So, ever thought about what it would be like if Kim Possible and Esurance girl ever had a threesome with Dr. Robotnik? I am willing to bet my life that a picture of that exists somewhere where Google Safesearch won't let you go (and for damn good reason).
Someone - somewhere - is jerking off to this.


Stay with me, i'm arriving at my point pretty soon. We've all heard of Furries and Slash-Fic and Hentai. That shit isn't new to anyone, and it now has a comedic place in the collective conscious of people like us. It's a running joke that we're all in on. Hell, maybe you're at the point where you know what "Vore" entails and can make merry mocking it. If not, a link has been provided to further your scholarship of the depraved. Of course, all of these different brands of fucked-uppedness have melded together and branched apart to claim new ground for pornography. Here is an example:

Pictured: The Cutting Edge of Human Sexuality's Evolution


Calm down, this all seems pretty intuitive so far, right? when you remove all accountability, people will be as poisonous and disgusting as they can be, it's a law of nature, and rule 34 just gives it a quantifiable name. The internet can be viewed as a Petri-dish for this kind of thing, growing "cultures" (nudge nudge) where none would have existed. I think it's my role as a blogger to study and make conclusions about those cultures, particularly the culture of pornography.

Pictured: The Blogger, at home


Alright, alright. ladies and gentlemen, i give you:
The most fucked up website i have ever encountered.
(Please do not look at this at school or work)

... WHAT?

no, just keep clicking around. I'll wait.


You tell me, dude.


Yep. Welcome to the party. Oh, you should check out the places where he edited clips from Dragonheart so they'd give him an erection. He also did that to Oblivion and Jaws Unleashed.

No, no, it's not me, i didn't make any of this stuff. I just thought it was really funny and..


Wait, i can explain: This is hilarious! if we look at it like an equation, where a= how wrong something is, b= time to adjust to the fact that it exists, and c= how funny it becomes over time, then...

... it would logically follow that, with time, this could become the funniest thing ever? right? right?

Just calm down, please. It's not a big deal! i'm sure one day we'll laugh about this, right? Don't be such a prude. It's just a raptor, fully realized in 3D, being strapped to a table while a mechanical...



OW! OKAY, I'm leaving! I'm so sorry i brought it up! please hold back your brutal beating long enough for me to get out the door...


*thunk, crunch, thunk, snap*

Oh god, the pain!

*WEEEEEEEEEEE-oooooooooooooooh, WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-oooooooooooooooooh*





Lowery: A Study

So, i had to do a life-story of a person over the age of 70 for my developmental psych class, and then analyze their emotional development according to Erikson's six stages of life. I took the assignment on a bit of a joyride, as i do with all my papers. I've included the story bit, and not so much the boring "content" of the paper. Yes, i have turned it in, and yes, i do expect a 100%. So here it is, i hope you enjoy it:

Lowery was born in Jordan, Arkansas in 1934, during the Great Depression. He was the eldest of four, with a brother and two sisters. He was an only child until he was 10 years old. His father, Lowery (NAME WITHELD) IV had been an officer World War I and was forty when Lowery was born. Because of the war and the stress it put on him, he did not find a young wife until many years after he came home from the Western Front. The woman he found, June (MAIDEN-NAME WITHELD) (NAME WITHELD), was twelve years his junior. They were married in 1923, when she was in her mid twenties.
Because of the great depression (and a 6 year stint in jail on Lowery IV’s part) they tried not to have any children. Their marriage was apparently not overly passionate. Lowery V was an accident and was apparently birthed in the bed he would sleep in once he was out of his crib. We cry a desperate prayer to our gods that the sheets WERE changed before this happened.
June was a strong woman who believed in God, the Devil and hard work. She did not like Papists, Jews or Negroes and would, if Lowery V is to be believed, remind everyone of these aspects of her character as often as she could. She had “mean eyes” and a nose that hooked downward and widened ever so slightly at the tip, as if she once had a normal nose but it thawed one fateful day in the Arkansas sun and hardened to its new, permanently sinister shape that night. Little is known about the origins of her nose, except that it did not pass to her son. In light of this, we rejoice to our gods in thanks.
Lowery IV was a cold man. His beard was thick enough to shatter razors with as little as a glance. He was from Haven, Connecticut and lived there until he was 20. He joined the army in 1914, to seek glory and honor on the field of battle. Having grown up on the romanticized war stories that were so popular in his days he had a very idealized view of war before he ever took part in one. He imagined himself in the cavalry, charging up a hill with his pistol in hand, as the sun set behind him and sabers clashed as steel bit flesh around him. The army instead cast him into a world of mud and fear - a rodent-like existence in the trenches, bayoneting equally terrified young German men while his friends were carved up around him, facedown in the muck. He rarely spoke of it when Lowery V asked. They never spoke at length or in detail about it until Lowery V himself came home from Korea in 1952. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Lowery IV was a pig farmer, and June worked in the town’s butcher-shop. Lowery IV spent the day kicking the pigs when they’d done nothing wrong and muttering to himself, while June spent her day frowning at customers and chopping at meat that, in all honesty, didn’t need to be chopped anymore. The (NAME WITHELD) household was a grim and strict one, to hear Lowery V tell it. He spent the first few years of his life while the depression was in full swing. His earliest memory was of the parched crab-grass, gently crackling and shifting as a rat attempted to flee to safety, “like a VC, tryin’ to find his foxhole” before it was caught and strangled for dinner by June’s thick-veined, calloused hands. Caked with the filth of the day, the (NAME WITHELD)s ate well that night. He estimates that he was four years old.
As a child, Lowery V did not have a lot of access to books or radio to expand his imagination. He had a King James bible and the occasional food-stamp booklet, which he would read as a famished castaway would eat perfectly cooked steaks. He had a great fear of the Devil, which was beaten into him by his mother, June. You see, he was resented by his parents for being an extra mouth to feed during the dust and squalor that was the Great Depression. When reading the book of Judges over and over by rat-oil lamplight each night, he’d see what he thought to be “The Devil’s Face” flickering in the shadows cast by the small rodential flame. When asked if he felt safe as a child, Lowery V said the following, “If you’d had a daddy like mine you’d feel safe anywhere. Now, he was a mean man, and a gruff man and wasn’t overly affectionate to me. But if there was so much as a taxman comin’ around our house all he’d have to do was step out onto the porch and stare, and the taxman would run his ass off to wherever he came form and never show his face again. That’s the kinda man my daddy was, the kind with the Old Testament God seething behind his eyes. Men crumbled when he looked upon’em. No, I felt safe as long as he was around.”
Lowery was quiet child, who rarely went to his school (which was a five mile walk/pig-ride). In his days at school he would study the Bible and Arithmetic, sometimes History and Racism, which was his least favorite class. He excelled and he showed a lot of imagination at an early age. He was alone with his parents and their loveless, brutish marriage until he was ten years old. He worked on the pig farm, trying to scrape a living from the sun-cracked ground. He dreamed to one day be like his father, a soldier. He’d fashion rifles out of rotted, wind-beaten fence-posts when he’d saved enough buttons and nails up to purchase them from the store in town. Much of the family’s revenue was in chestnut/stick/nail/pig bone/button form, and they had a single five-dollar bank note hidden under the floor to use in case of emergencies. It was pulled off the corpse of a circus-performer in 1938, and stayed under their floor for 7 years.
Lowery’s father continued his service to the army in 1941, when the United States declared war on the Axis Powers. He was a tank commander in the European theater and, once, when a German Tiger tank had disabled his tiny, poorly-armored Sherman outside Lyon, France in the summer 1944, he climbed out the hatch and charged the tank on foot, carrying twin axes of his own design. He jumped up onto the Tiger (the largest tank in the German arsenal at that time) and blew the hatch open with a hand grenade. He proceeded to pull the now exposed passengers out of the tank (which was in motion at the time) smashing their heads and necks with the mighty axes while they were suspended in the air. He was shot in the neck by the German tank commander (after the tank had slowed to a stop, unable to operate without a crew) whose hands he chopped off and wore around his neck as he recovered in the hospital. Unable to continue the fight, the now fifty-year old Lowery IV was shipped home and given the nearly unheard of honor, the “Medal of Violence”. He returned home soon afterward.
Meanwhile, back home in Jordan, AR, Lowery V began his teendom. As a teenager he was much more well-adjusted, working in his father’s stead on the farm and dating girls. He made a lot of friends. His mother changed little while his father was away at war. Being a simple country boy, there was not much to experiment with (save for moonshine, which was, afterall, the Devil’s Drink). His first experience with alcohol was drinking with his father after he returned from France. His father returned a better man that when he’d left, having taken much of his aggression out on the Germans, who stole from him the bright young man he’d once been. He regained a bit of that and, as a result, his frozen marriage to June (now in her 40s) warmed and they had three more children. Aside from the responsibilities of the farm (which was flourishing under his care), he had a lot of freetime. It was a happy time in Lowery V’s life, things looked up where they had looked straight down before. Children meant hope and the success of the farm meant money. There was not much freedom on the farm, or much opportunity in his small town. He felt constricted and confined and soon after the war ended he lied about his age and joined the army in 1950, when war was breaking out between North and South Korea. That, he said, changed him forever.
To hear him tell it, Korea was a hellish and brutal time in his life. A time of confusion and strife, of dead friends and killing in the dark. He was a sniper in the army, just sixteen. He spent a year in the infantry, and did not like to discuss it at all. The following words are the closest thing to a war story I got out of him: “When the sun would go down, the Communists would come over the wall, in The Punchbowl. They’d been pounded with artillery all day. One would come over, and we’d shoot him. Then another, would climb over and fall, belly-up from the top. [he pauses here and his eyes become glassy and unfeeling, the memory of that night clearly stealing him away to another time] They came one or two at a time all night, and they’d fall on our side of the wall. [he begins to stutter and repeat himself a little, grasping for the correct words] The came all night, just like that. Just climbing to the top to die on the other side. I hope never to see anything like it again.” He attained the rank of 1st Sgt., and was made commander of an artillery battery close to the 38th Parallel until his tour was up.
He was 18 in 1952 when he returned home. He met Claire (MAIDEN NAME WITHELD) (NAME WITHELD) that winter. She was the love of his life and they got married after two months together. After Korea he wished to have a normal life and forget the carnival of horrors that had been the last two years. He had no children, but moved to Seattle and went to college at the Universiy of Washington from 1954 to 1958, with a degree in economics. Claire ran a boutique in Ballard for 23 years. He worked as an accountant for forty years here in the city and never returned to Jordan. He’d send money to his parents to try to help them out, feeling a bit guilty that he’d abandoned them and their way of life. His job did not make him happy, just “number-crunching”. He was paid well and was able to retire at age 55 in 1989. Even when he was working, he gained respect in his field and was made partner in an accounting firm. This allowed him to take a lot of time off work and enjoy his leisure time. He feels that he was very successful in his job and enjoyed his time away from it.
His father died in 1967 of a brain aneurism. His mother soon followed him in 1971 from trichinosis, and was one of the five Americans to die of such an easily curable disease that year. “Must’ve been all the pork”, he remarked. When his father died, Lowery says it was among the worst times in his life aside from his tour in the army. Korea was, by far, the worst time in his life that he shared. It was a time of a loss of faith in himself and his ideals, of disenchantment with God and Glory and Duty in his eyes. He recovered gradually over the years, with help from Claire. When asked about the obstacles he had to overcome, he said that his childhood and life of poverty pre-Korea was something he had tried to free himself from and was successful. He needed the city life, the love of a sane woman and the modern comforts available to him as a self-made man. He has many joyful memories of driving across America and traveling around the world since his retirement. He feels at peace watching the world flicker by a car window when his wife drives, and he feels in control of his life when the lines disappear below his wheels when he’s in the driver seat. He likes the adventure of finding new places to explore, the solace of writing about them and understanding the people they house. He does all of this with his wife, who keeps him sane and balanced.
Lowery V looks back on his life with a bit of a smirk sometimes, with tears in his eyes others, and sometimes he’s still dumbstruck by his memories. Overall he gives the impression of being content that he lived life fully and was in control of himself, and never did anything too bad that he’s still guilty about as it draws to a close. Travel and writing make him happy, and he wishes he’d discovered them earlier in his life. Before that it was girls and his dream of being a war hero, of trying to fill his father’s boots. If there’s anything he regrets, it’s trying to live some version of his father’s life instead of his own for so long, of sacrificing his youth to that ideal. One thing he is content with is the fact that he is responsible for his actions, that he decided what would happen to him and what his responses to life were. He isn’t much of a preacher, but I can tell that his story is a bit of advice in itself: to live one’s own life and to be glad your name’s on it after it’s passed. He is not a religious man and does not believe in heaven. He worries sometimes that there’s a hell, believes he’s seen it before and has been working himself away from it ever since. He loves his life and plans to live for eighty more years. If not though, he’s got a hell of a story and, if it ended tomorrow, there’s more than enough in it to be proud of.


"What do i write about?" you ask?

Well, i don't want to brag or anything, but i write depressing little half-thoughts that don't go anywhere, mainly.

Coming up with new ideas for comics can be sort of mentally taxing and usually devolves into nonsense about the time you lose sight of the goal. When your goal is as loosely defined as "Fabricate A Good Idea For a Comic" then this happens sooner than later and you often end up with something like this:

Boy meets girl story (lame?)

Photo-Comic that is drawn over in ps.

Something falls out of the sky and antics ensue

A wordless story about a guy running for his life

Jellybirds and weird buildings story.

Aliens come, but they are really benign


Catwalks story?

Battle with a big spidery robot.

Man with a chainsaw is seen walking to safeway. He goes in and comes out without the chainsaw. Our hero investigates. Nothing comes of it.

A man sets off a tripwire. Everything explodes.

A man is running away from a collapsing city. Something happens at the end.

Slice of life comic (LAST RESORT).

Pod is dropped from space and robots get out. Little spidery ones.

4 or 5 single page stories that don’t go anywhere, but they involve cool shit. All of them photocomics, drawn over in PS.

A man with a dog discovers a dead body on the train tracks.

A man is hit by a bus, and the bus drives off.

A hate crime is committed. OH NO!

A jellyfish eats a smaller jellyfish.

A homeless man gives a Christmas card to another homeless man. Too bad it's May, retard.

A little boat sinks.

An airplane crashes into a truck. No one is hurt, but everyone is a little shaken by it.

A flagpole falls down and hits a squirrel. The squirrel miraculously survives, thanks to its great patriotism.

Our lovers gather round us and make us feel like shit. As always, with trips back home.

The sun sets over a small town as it rises over a different small town with the exact same name.

A car accidentally weaves out of its lane. After correcting, it is promptly hit by another car that is driving on the wrong side of the highway. Before it happens, the drivers of both cars utter the same obscenity, at the exact same time.

A guitar is purchased, but never played.

Today, a man realizes the true value of shutting the fuck up and drawing pictures every once in a while.

Little glints of sunlight play off some blades of grass. There is also a frog there, who ribbits at nothing in particular. It is riveting.

There is a size 10 ½ left shoe on the side of the freeway, almost in the carpool lane. The right shoe is a couple miles down, on the right side. No explanation is offered as to why this is. We are forced to speculate.

They keep this place clean by moving the dirt around.

A dog thought that hole in the fence would be just a little bigger. Now it’s stuck and all twisted up between the links of the fence and it feels like a fool. Poor dog.

A man walks in a small circle before getting on the elevator, just for the fucking hell of it.

A woman screams so loudly that all the lights go out.

The soap in the soapdish is a lot more expensive than the soapdish by itself. Does that make me gay?

All the girls refuse to shut up, and drive our hero to alcoholism and, consequently, to an early grave.

The engine WOULD start, just not for this asshole. Also, it’s sort of cold out.

Your boss gives you a parcel and asks you to give it to him the following day, at lunch time, in front of your coworkers. You sneak a peek inside and see that there are naked pictures of you in it, pictures that were taken without your permission by someone with a very powerful telephoto lens.
You fear for your job, so you make sure it isn’t noticeable that you opened it and peeked inside, and you give it to him the following day. He looks at it and turns it over in his hands, looking for a sign that it’s been opened. He sees none, and frowns a little. You see him holding a similar looking package and talking to one of your other male coworkers later that day. You mention it to no one, even though you think this poor guy deserves a little warning.

Yesterday, someone changed their major. It wasn’t the right choice. Everyone seems to know it except for her. Dumb bitch.

There’s someone else’s hair in the shower this morning. Maybe you should start locking your doors. Maybe you should move. Maybe you should change religions. Maybe you should install cameras. Maybe there’s a ten day waiting period on that handgun you were looking at in the sporting goods store ten days ago, and maybe you wish you’d purchased it then. Maybe you’ll drop by there after work. Maybe it’s not safe here. Maybe it’s not safe anywhere. You should take your mind off it. go fishing or some shit.
Your dad took you fishing when you were younger, and you really liked it, but he was always more of a hunter and he thought it was boring by comparison. He’s been to Africa. Isn’t that neat? One day you hope to carry a rifle across Africa.

A man gets his hopes up, but is disappointed when nothing comes of it. He is hesitant next time. He is smarter now.

A man walks out of the theater before the movie ends, utterly hollowed out by what he’s just seen. The walk home is a lot longer than it normally is. Sleeping is difficult.

Oh hey, a new band. Check out this new band. This new band I found. Do you like them? Oh. Well, I do. And I found them. Not you. You cunt.

Interesting, the things that we see flying out of the windows of our building.

I wonder if, in Japan, they have Clue and Monopoly. And if they do, do they have weird anime versions of it, like we sort of do with the Simpsons?

That man doesn’t like my shoes. I can tell.


She's 68, but she says she's 24.

He ain't. and he has splashy feet.


Ain't Nothin' but a D-Thang

whadda ya know, a guy with a crossbow wearing a wookie-skin cloak! he looks sort of mean, but he's really alright once you get the fuck away from him.

Well, i'm back after a while. Real life has been beckoning and, if i'm honest, overstaying its welcome a little. i miss the internet, i never really have time to just sit around and click on stuff anymore. Maybe that means i'm growing up or becoming a more round character or something, but i miss having a lot of time to waste.

Then again, i do have more time to waste than ever before. I've got a test tomorrow and that's as far as my responsibilities have gone this week.

D is still cool. I'm still generally unsure of everything and i'm still sort of an asshole. I took a personality test to see if my Myers Briggs typology changes when i'm no longer single. but, to quote a verse: "Ya'll know me - Still the same old G (or, INFP)". I dunno, i'm pretty happy. I'm a young, dumb man with a young, beautiful girlfriend in a beautiful city in late spring. It's pretty nice.

I've been drawing a little, mostly on paper. and mostly at night. mostly.

Anyway, here's a recent digital drawing i did a couple weeks ago.

It's the hardcore badass brother of Toad from mario, and his friend who carries a sparkler-staff. They fight crime or some shit.



This one is new. There's some deltron lyrics in this Handsome Boy Modeling school song that are the inspiration (source) for the text there. This was supposed to be me and my new girlfriend, preparing to kick some ass. Turns out that i look nothing like the male character in the foreground, and Danica's character looks more like Meg White than anyone. But yeah, body-type and clothes are really the only things that have any connection to what we are actually like, and i designed the clothes myself so they're fictional as well.

I'm thinking i want to design clothes for a living if comics don't work out. I think that would be pretty awesome, but it's also sort of gay and i bet i'd take a lot of shit for it from gay and straight friends alike.

Anyway, 15 pages to write today, and i don't have any of it done. Cheers.


Fake Diesel Ad

There you are. Enjoy.


So much has happened.

So i've sort of taken a 2 week break to get my shit in order, and it is far from "in order" still.

I'm dating someone now. We'll call her D. I think the less i say about her here, the better, this isn't a blog about my girlfriend. I will tell you that she's fucking awesome though. She helps me.

I've been removed from my apartment and am living in the dorms full time now. It's a long story that stops making sense in the middle and becomes difficult to even talk about toward the end. It was a real tragedy that it escalated to where it is now, but i shall roll with it. I don't really have any other option.

I've been sick as a dog for the last week or so. I'm just now feeling okay again. It was pretty awful, daily nosebleeds and an awful sore throat. It's over now though.

The end of the quarter is approaching fast, and i have a lot of catching up to do in school. The less i talk about this and the more i do it the happier everyone will be.

I got a phone call from my dad and decided not to pick it up, because i was afraid i'd done something wrong accidentally and he was calling to chew me out. I didn't even listen to the message until today. He wanted a movie recommendation, something my mom would like for their saturday night together. I felt like a bad son. Still do, sort of.

I've done a little writing of my own, but i'm not satisfied with it. I may post it later. No pleasure-drawings, no time for that anymore. I'm involved in this drawing thing on the pwot forums. Vote for me if you know what's good for you.

I get the sense i'm losing friends at the same rate i'm gaining them. It worries me.

Okay, i have to finish my paper now. Wish me luck.


Rabbits, Sleep, Hangman. All in a day's work.

Let it never be said that i draw nothing but beautifuls. I have a reputation to uphold.

Today i played hangman with a classmate. I usually loathe my peers but hangman was fun. She was pretty too. So i win twice.

i get tired before i should, and wake up later than i should, and go to sleep later than i should. I've tried to remedy this, by doing homework until i'm tired, then going to be early but then my brain starts thinking about all the things it, for whatever reason, didn't think of that it had put on the day's thought agenda. Before i know it it's 4:40 and i'm thinking about that episode of Fight Quest where he gets hit in the liver by the french guy. That shit looked painful. And i stop and try to calm my brain down, the way one would stroke a rabbit that had just been attacked by the family Doberman. Rabbits freak the fuck out, apparently, if they're startled and they can't hop around afterward. I dunno, i never had one.

Anyway, my mind wanders into each crevice of my day before it will let itself sleep, checking everything over, blowing out candles, locking the doors. Once there's nothing left to think about, then i actually begin to feel tired. The rest of me has been waiting for about three hours by that point, it's bullshit.

I had an interesting discussion, which was basically the continuation of the same discussion i have every day with a certain person. It's strange, like an interactive TV show almost. There are a few plotlines, a small number of themes and each is touched on and further unveiled every episode. I don't want the finale to come, don't want a hiatus, to wait for next season. It's the strangest sensation - not attractive or even very pleasant, but enrapturing. The show you don't like, yet can't stop watching. that's really dehumanizing and not a full picture of everything, but it's one of the many feelings i get when, like clockwork, i talk to this person. a tiny victory, a tiny defeat, a tiny insight here and there. I don't get it. I want to figure it out.

Things are catching up to me, are hitting home. There's been the long, slow motion period of the last few years. I come out here, settle into the apartment and everything else in my life can stop. Friends from back home get my voicemail, friends from the city are sparse and don't make me feel like i'm needed all the time. I don't have to deal with anything, i can block it out, stop the bullet in the air, get on a plane and spend 9 months out of the year out of the line of fire.

I have an odd relationship with distance. Most of my relationships have been, at least at one point, long distance. I live a long way off from my home, my parents, my old friends. I rely on that distance, the peace that comes with knowing that it's all really far away.

Okay, i'm done musing about nothing for now. Whatever.




I've figured out how to do that pointillism texture. It's pretty fun to mess with. More coming as soon as i properly harness it. This is my first effort with it. Today is a beautiful day.


An Unhealthy Obsession With Corpses, Male Models.

It's a sketch for a motivational/recruitment poster appearing in an undead world. I was sort of going for a gorillaz/jamie hewlett thing. Oh yeah, then i went overboard and straight-up ripped Hewlett's shit off.
Nobody wants none of that. That's for damn sure. Oh yeah, and more model comix:


Model Comix Episode 1: Hank and Bosie in: The Quest for Shows

I've been wanting to do comics like Newbs Romantic over at Perfect Stars (i think that's in the Links section at the bottom of the page). So Jabber Comix is officially a heading under which Model Comix and Jabber Comix and Babble Comix fall. Other kinds of Comix might be added, WHO KNOWS. Not you, that's who.



Whatever happens I think it’s safe to say that I’m not an awful person. I mean, I’m not running a meth-lab or stabbing hookers or even being around meth-labs or hookers. My life is empty of the really horrible shit everyone can agree on: murder, non-consensual anything, promiscuity, drugs, alcohol to excess. Now, cigarettes, a minor yet universal evil, have gone out the window. Before that pre-marital sex was put on hold indefinitely. I haven’t had a drink in a few weeks. Haven’t looked at porn in a while, and whenever I do I feel sort of bad for the girls afterward. I have bad language, I’ll admit that, and sometimes a dirty mind. I forgot where I was going with this.

Oh yeah, “things that are universally considered dodgy”: the more I knock off my list, the more of a boring asshole I become. And I don’t really care about that, I’ll be as boring as I please, but when the sex stopped, I stopped being as happy. That’s not to say that having sex was the only thing that made me happy amongst all the things that ended alongside it (like “love” and “everything that went into that relationship”), but you know what I mean. The sex stopped and, I hate to admit this, but it’s the thing I miss the most. It’s not the only thing I miss, I’m not a pig. It’s like the events in the relationship are a sequence of little lite-brite things that I’m viewing from about half the room away, scattered all over the place. But there are several really fucking big lite-brites that are really nice to look at, and they overpower the smaller ones. I hope I’m not digging my own grave here, I just have to work hard to recall small things, and I don’t think I’m awful for seeing sex as a big thing. As far as hindsight goes, it’s the first thing you see.

Maybe I am awful and maybe that’s my whole point. Sex is a vice, and I don’t do it anymore, I therefore become less happy. Smoking, also a vice, and it’s the exact same story. I don’t have anything to look forward to, hour-to-hour anymore. I’m not fixated, there’s no light at the end of the whateverthefuck. Does this make sense? I mean, yeah, good grades are good, but they’re not what satisfies me. I’m satisfied by the bad things, things that are either medically proven to be harmful or potentially emotionally harmful. It’s the risk, I think, the spiciness of it. It’s something I wish I knew more about, something I wish I could control or replace with something that’s not bad for me. I don’t think I’m supposed to live for things that can kill or hurt me. (GUYS, PARADOX, GUYS. DID YOU SEE THAT? THAT’S QUITE A PARADOX. SOMEONE GET THIS GUY A FUCKING PULITZER.)

Self deprecation aside (and I’d prefer an Eisner by the way, bitches) this has me worried. There’s something wrong with me now, or something that’s been wrong my whole life that I’m excavating, slowly revealing the horror of what’s been buried under all my bullshit rationalizing and naïve, pretentious romanticism. If there’s something down there I guess it’s better to know about it than to be ignorant. Ya know, like that movie "Tremors".


Last Meal Before My Execution: A Scenario

I'd have my final meal at The French Laundry, a legendary restaurant that you have to make a reservation at months in advance if you want a table. This is less of a list of food, but more of a meal experience. (This is written under the idea that i get whatever the hell i want and have free reign over my entire experience and not have to answer for any of it.)

It would have to be at 8:00 PM, on a Friday in late summer. I'd sit down at the table in the center of the dining room surrounded by the richest, most tasteful, most powerful people in the world, shackled and in my orange prison uniform, and just order food until they didn't have any left. I'd order things that aren't even on the menu and make them cook all of it for me, then throw it on the floor or onto someone else's lap. I'd steal food from the plates of the obscenely rich family seated next to me and rub it up and down my (now naked) body as i lay spread-eagled on the white tablecloth. I'd drink too. I'd order a glass of their most expensive champagne and a glass of coke, then mix the two in my mouth and spray it all over my waiter's starched white uniform.

For the wine i'd drink like Caligula must've drank, purposefully spilling it all over myself until i'm emptying $5,000 bottles over my food-caked body, two at a time. I'd get drunk as fuck on cheap vodka i brought with me that i drink straight from the bottle in front of the precious, innocent children of an oil billionaire. I'd tell the filthiest jokes i know loudly, and to no one in particular. Eventually, after i'm drunk enough, i'll just start belting out profanities at the top of my lungs, flinging bits of food-spittle out of my roaring jaws. I'd vomit on someone's trophy wife, then try to hit on her. If her powerful, opulently wealthy husband objects, the prison guards that have been brought along to supervise will remove him from the restaurant. He’ll not be welcome at The French Laundry henceforth.

I will not stop stuffing my face (not necessarily my mouth) until i've racked up at least a 6-figure tab. I will ask for the bill and pour the last splash of my vodka onto it, and leave the empty plastic bottle and its twist-off cap on the table as the tip, slapping the restaurant's owner on the ass on my way out as i belch in their face. If i'm allowed to drive back to death row, I'll do it in a Bentley and i'll drive on the left side of the road, leaning my naked handcuffed body out the window all the way back. The prison will provide me with the sunglasses of my choosing for this drive. I'll park in the warden's spot and stroll back in the door, naked and coated in food and sauces and wine.

I think if i were allowed to do that, i'd grin all the way to the gas chamber, and probably still be grinning in hell once i got there.


...The Fuck?

That's all, really.


Longpost: Cooler than a regular post.

There’s a stiffness in my whole body today. Nothing wants to move, like it won’t trust me unless I give it nicotine, like in the good old days. Well, fuck you, body, you’re gonna do pushups. How do you like me now? That’s right motherfucker.

My roommate is losing his mind, I think. He’s talking nonsense when I come into the room, ours being the only one with the light on at 2:30 in the morning on a school night. Granted, I’m up just as late as him and everything, but it’s strange. I’ve never been “like the other boys” or whatever, so I’m confused about how they all behave and if this is somehow my fault for not being around very much. Or maybe it’s all in my head and I was tired and everything sounded like nonsense. I’ll give it a few weeks and see if I was right.

I was awake at 9:30 this morning, an hour before my class. Not smoking is an amazing thing. I felt like the king of the world today, earlier, like I could burn a hole in the world just by looking at it the wrong way. I ran up to the apartment, dropped off my laptop and sat about (did some fucking pushups again. God damn am I sick of pushups), then ran to class.

The girl I sort of like from a distance wasn’t in class today, so I didn’t feel any real need to not act like a dick or to be shy. So I was the opposite of shy and probably hurt some feelings or bruised some egos today. Whatever. I was god in that moment, looking down on worms. I was a sociopath for about an hour in the classroom and it was creepily freeing, I felt like I could do whatever I wanted, say what I wanted to say and not worry about other people, because fuck them. It’s not a way I feel very often but it’s becoming more and more appealing the fewer and fewer nicotine parts-per-million remain in my bloodstream.

Day 3 is supposed to be the hardest, then it gets easier from there. Day 3 started about two hours ago. My stomach is too sore to do any more exercises. There are no drinks because there is no car at the apartment right now. I’m not giving up so easily. I’m making TEA. Cause fuck ya’ll, that’s why.

I got a call from Jessica a couple days ago, apparently. She’d left a message when my phone was out of commission over the weekend and I hadn’t checked my mailbox since a few nights before. I was idly checking my voicemail, deleting calls from my sister that I’d already heard the jist of and there it was, like a landmine. If I’d been standing I probably would have needed a place to sit down. I listened to it about four times. I haven’t seen her face in two years. Haven’t heard from her since July or something. Life stopped for a glorious twenty seconds. Message saved.

I’d been wanting to talk, wanting to see how she was for the longest time. I’d convinced myself otherwise during the whole Lauren thing, decided I didn’t need her anymore and that we’d just be adults and go our separate ways (being, in this case, East coast and West coast). Lauren thing pulled a Hindenburg (I could expound, but then this would turn out just like every other fucking blog) and, for a number of reasons I felt like a failure once more. I did some looking back, as one does in these sorts of positions, and realized that I never really felt like a failure with Jessica, before during or after the “end times” of the relationship. Every other girl I’ve dated since I’ve felt like I was horribly and fundamentally flawed in some way that made me impossible to love or to get along with or to relate to. That I’d fucked up. That I was a fuckup. Not with her. She never made me feel worthless. Whenever I’d make myself feel worthless, she’d snap me out of it.

So I’d been feeling worthless for a few months since Lauren and then, all of the sudden, remembered what it was like to feel at peace about myself and a girl at the same time. It’s more complicated than that, but it was like a flash, like getting a cup of cold water thrown over my pathetic, snoring face, and being so completely far gone that I needed three more cups of icewater in the face so I could process it. Her voice was the same. I knew who it was at “Hi Allen, uh”. I remembered, exactly, the shapes her mouth made when she’d say my name. That sounded porny, but it’s not.

It made me sort of wonder about the whole thing, something I’d been trying not to do since the Alex thing last spring. I’ve been pretty weirded out by the whole thing if you couldn’t tell. Not in a particularly bad way, but in a very particular way. Those feelings you can’t really describe with out sounding like a dumbass (a risk I’ve braved quite valiantly in this post, no?).

Whatever, I have some homework I should be doing… Comic soon maybe. I haven’t told anyone I’m updating again. That soon too, maybe.



Today i got a call from my mom, wherein she told me that she had cancer. The good news is that it was taken out, and that she no longer has cancer. So she lived with the knowledge of having cancer for about four days. I think that would've probably killed me.

The whole situation has prompted me to quit smoking, to write more, to exercise more and to be less of an asshole.

I'd fill you in on what's been going on since Jabbercomix was put into an induced coma last april, but chances are that if you're reading this blog/comic you probably talk to me on a semi-regular basis anyway and such writing would be redundant (and, admittedly, not very interesting to begin with). I've learned some valuable things, unlearned some valuable things and stayed the same in nearly all respects.

I've got sort of a blank slate here, on which i can do nearly anything. I plan on doing some writing-from-life (cringe), some storytelling, some lying, some stealing, drawing, cartooning and neglecting.

I'll start off with something i wrote last week, about the earth's last ten seconds. It's called "The Blood in the Observer's Mouth"

An Observer sits in his pod, miles above. He will see it all happen. He will see it all stop happening. He will have no one to tell.

Stephen looked in the mirror and saw something that he didn’t like. The wheels stopped turning. The DOW dropped 6.02x1023 points. That’s a lot of points.
Fish fluttered their fins in the fish tank, dimly aware that something bad was about to happen.
The milk in the fridge was one second away from being expired, according to the time stamp that arbitrarily numbered its days.
Across the hall, a girl went to sleep on the couch, fully clothed. She’d been so tired lately and finally falling asleep was a blessing. Her television tried desperately to get her to dial the number on the screen.
Cats yowled and copulated in the alley between the building and the other building. The sound disturbed the cats and the other cats. The chill in the air disturbed them all.
A centipede crawled across someone’s floor, and stopped for a second, primal fear gripping its core, proving once and for all that bugs feel feelings too, ya know.
The earth gave a slight shake. Atomic clocks went from precisely accurate to abysmally wrong. "Wrong" itself threw in the towel and ceased to be a concept. Normal clocks stopped. 4 out of every ten people on the planet smelled burning feathers. No feathers were burning.
A dentist opens his college yearbook. The pages are all blank. He knows where the pictures go, knows all the names by heart, such that he did not need to open the book in the first place. But it is blank now and he considers, for a brief moment, the possibility that he had lost his mind long ago.
Stephen, unable to look away from the mirror, tried to scream, punching his reflection as hard as he could. His hand shattered. Bones, flesh, fingernails fell in shards into the sink.
A cancer patient makes a full, momentary recovery
The girl across the hall wakes from what seemed like hours of sleep. It has only been three seconds.
The earth gave a greater shake. The earth screamed. The people screamed. The fish screamed. The milk screamed. Stephen wondered where the super glue was. The cats screamed. The dentist tried to scream, but his voice would not come. The television went dark. The sound slowed until it was too low for human ears. Right in the middle of the word “extra”. The girl across the hall screamed.
A flash, like you see in movies. Clouds boiling away, landmines going off on their own accord. Anything to escape what was about to happen. The sun swung from the east to the west in the blink of an eye, then back to the east again. Then due north. It settled just out of view under the western horizon to catch its breath.
The city experienced a sudden loss of cabin pressure. The cats screamed louder. Their fur singed. Their flesh singed.
Stephen could not find the glue. The television stammered, looking for something to say. The girl suddenly ceased to exist. The fish rocketed toward the ceiling. The milk became a pale blue. The dentist found his voice.
The yearbook’s pages were re-filled, but with the preceding year. Small metal objects began to fall out of the sky. Nuts, bolts, screws. They became progressively larger. Padlocks now. Mufflers.
Stephen’s heart stopped. The fish fell back into their tank, their bodies broken by the ceiling. The milk fell through a hole in the floor. It got off easy.
Engine Blocks. Furnaces. Oil Derricks. The junk of the previous generation, falling such to make the water levels rise. To cause typhoons under the correct conditions.
Train cars now, Diesel Submarines. Cranes, Girders. Bits of ships.
Everyone took a deep breath. No one knew why.
Another flash. The cancer patient becomes terminal once more. The dentist looks at his feet for the last time. Stephen closes his eyes.
The television suddenly remembers all the important things it has been wanting to say for years. “I love you. You are special and I love you. I will love you forever. I will never, ever stop loving you. I love you, I love you, I love - ”. It is cut short. Things happen. Long overdue apologies are never spoken. people trade thoughts with their closest friends, their worst enemies, their long dead pets. The judge bangs the gavel. Things end.

From space, the earth appeared to stretch in all directions. Then it stretched in no direction at all. Then the Observer blinked and it was gone. Gone forever, gone from the past and the future. Gone from the space it no longer occupies, from the schedule to which it no longer adheres.
The Observer tasted blood in his mouth only to inexplicably realize, an instant later, that it wasn’t his own and that there was far too much of it.

I hope that was enjoyable, or unsettling or didn't make you want to murder me. Until next time...