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.

COMIC BOOKING

HE IS THINKING ABOUT DICKS BECAUSE HE IS A SCIENTOLOGIST, YOU GET IT?

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.

Tremors

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.