Sunday, October 17, 2010

sum notez

The words of others resonate without that uneasy weight of disatisfaction for they are performance. But one must build with vision before they may put themselves in the league of success or failure. Yes, your infastructure is not even distinguished enough to critique as bad because you have simply thrown the bricks in a heap for fear of designing a plan. No longer fear the blueprint and you will be on a path to find anything worthwhile.

The peace of company you have spent hours intermingling with. To be the topic of gossip within circles you feel comfortable in. Even the way we analogize our feelings is revealing things about our selves. The room is quiet with the air of reflection. Everyone is inside themself. We are free to ignore the external world that surrounds us and busy our own, insulur minds. Is this what happens? Is this a fair description? Not all details are contained. Life is rich with information and the art of narrative is to select like from a buffet; no two will fill their plate with the same serving of details.

Friday, October 1, 2010

Never settle for something boring, even if people grumble at you.

Saturday, August 28, 2010

We didn't know what we'd found. It was all gold in soundwaves, it would make us rich; we threw it around and made sandcastles with it. Because that's the kind of freedom we all want.

It's weirder looking back, when you know. It's nothing like actually being. The back of your life is a story and that's all you have, and somehow what you do right now will turn into that. It isn't bad, it's the best we can do. But the what's done is nothing like the what is doing, they aren't the same person or construction of thoughts at all. It's a completely different approach. It's like living and reading a book.

The book is just pages, its words that you understand, and even then it's fluid. The words, the constructions, the interpretations, it's like a river that's always in more or less the same place but can't be pinned down to a single frame of existence, not ever, because it will never be somehow definitive as how that river exists. Books are like that, and your past is a book.

The present is nothing like a book. Sometimes people try to make you think of it like a book, but you can't ever. It probably can't even be appropriately analogized to anything. It's a story you're still reading, it's too soon.

It's what everything you did before built a context for. It's an out of control car careening madly down the road, it's the mouse anticipating the pounce of the cat. It's the big wait for something, before it all just turns into a book. A book that sits there, inscrutably solid. It catches you off guard like that, the book does, you wouldn't expect all that confusion from just a book. We thought books were simple. Books are impossible and so is the present, and we keep trying to feel in control of both.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

pt. 2

continued from below

After leaving our friends the buskers we set sail for 42nd Street, in fierce debate as to whether or not the associated classiness made for an obvious destination to men dressed like us. Robert postulated that we were well-dressed for a outing at 42nd, while suggested that our arrival there would not carry the same sense of silliness as if we were to turn up in some place where we were more blatantly overdressed for.

Along the way we met another friend of Conor's, this time outside of whatever restaurant is roughly across the street from 42nd. She and her friend, both of whose names I forget, were standing outside taking a break. This was when I met my first fan.

The girl who Conor knew looked vaguely familiar to me, as someone I had probably seen around campus before. I mentioned this to her, and she said she had seen me around before too, and in fact had seen the production of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead I had recently been a part of. She went on to tell me how much she enjoyed it, and had a wonderful pile of flattery to dish out to my acting ability. So much, in fact, that I was reduced to bashfulness and uncontrollable hugs. It was quite an evening highlight, and I felt pretty giddy for some time afterwards.

And thus we trekked across the street to 42nd Street, which sure enough proved a bit lackluster. We poked our noses in the door, looking pompous and arrogant, and were met with nothing that intrigued our aristocratic sensibilities. After deliberation we decided an excursion to Baba's was the only way to go.

When we reached Baba's some kind of show was going on, and we realized we had no money for cover, having emptied our pockets of change for our friends the buskers. This almost proved a non-issue as we ascended the stairs and the bouncer, confused as he likely was at our ostentatious getup, asked if we were a band. The obvious answer for any band of rogues such as ourselves looking for mischief was to claim to indeed be a band and head in to look like we were going to perform. However, sadly, Robert was hit with a compulsion of truthfulness and blew our accidental cover, and thus blowing our finances on cover.

Baba's was an interesting time full of minor encounters, and two pitchers of Sweet-O. We chatted with an Asian man about pocketwatches. Robert and Conor loudly discussed Star Trek much to the bemusement of the patrons around the table next to us. At one point I wandered up front to see the band and a man turned towards me, looked me up and down, and said, "You look cool." At one point I stopped a man to tell him how good his facial hair was, and another guy stopped with him to extol the virtues of this man's impressive chops. We then fell into a long discussion with the second man, the content of which I have completely forgotten, though likely centering around how fun it is to dress up silly. We're still not entirely sure whether or not he was actually acquainted with Chops Man.

When ordering our second pitcher of Sweet-O, a curious event happened. A girl who Conor seemed to know that we'd been sort-of conversing with, after two of us had filled our glasses, picked up the pitcher and wandered outside with it. This didn't seem to trouble us until Robert came looking for his refill and we went out looking for her out in the mass of bodies packed on the deck and found no sign. Someone had very oddly wandered off with our alcohol! We wandered in and out a few times, rather confused. Eventually the deck cleared a bit and we found her at a table in the back. When we asked what the hell was going on, it turned out she had mistaken it for a pitcher of water and was rather shocked to learn what she was about to start drinking.

This was how we found ourselves relaxing on the deck at Baba's. Conor and Robert started talking to someone we referred to as Star Wars Shirt Guy, and I started chatting up Big Earrings Girl and Her Friend, who I would later know as Ashley. Fairly typical tipsy-bar-chatting-with-strangers ensued, which was a pretty good time. After a while we felt it was time to move on to a new locale, and we staggered off to the Globe.

Because the Globe is Conor's current place of employment, we were able to slip in for free, which was pretty great at this point. The Globe itself was fairly unexciting, being seemingly a generic dance club. We did, however, meet some of our pub crawl girls from across the street, and delighted reunions were had. There was also a balcony, which was of great excitement to me personally, and I quickly pulled my cohorts off the dance floor in order to explore. Up on the balcony we met more pub crawl girls, and Conor went to the bartender and asked for a surprise, which produced shots of something pink that tasted like tylenol. Shortly after we departed out the back door, and Conor stole us some cold french fries from the kitchen.

At this point we decided it was best to head to Conor's house to wind down the evening with some elicit substances. On our way, however, we walked past the spot where we met the buskers. Sadly, they had already disappeared from the world. However, by odd coincidence, a couple who had been standing nearby listening to them at the same time as us before was also walking by, and we were able to share our distress in their absence.

At this point there were a lot of people on he street, particularly lined up outside of China Garden, which was where I met up with Ashley and Earing Girl once again. The night was full of continuity! We chatted it up and I told them about the crazy fighting that had taken place the last time I was at China Garden in the middle of the night, while Robert and Conor also seemed to make and meet friends amongst the crowd. We met some more pub crawl girls who didn't seem to remember us, and I met a girl who was celebrating her birthday and gave her a hug. We then wandered up to the library so Conor could relive himself, and then headed off to his house.

Once there we begin to get sleepier, and the evening wound down with bad jokes some pretty good chats about life, death, and M*A*S*H. After our business there was done, Conor sent us off with some chips and pop tarts and Robert and I stumbled back to my house to fall asleep, in preparation for another day of adventures full of yard sales, korean food, and n64 games.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

bartleby's busy day

Adventure story time!

So last night my roommate(s) and I hosted our third "Gentleman's Symposium" which is essentially a big excuse for us to invite a bunch of our friends over and all be dressed in fancy clothes and be the same silly people we always are only with pompous accents.

Obviously this rules.

Last time a few of us, towards the later end of the evening, got it in our heads somehow that we should wander off into the night and make our way to Baba's, a nearby bar we aren't even especially fond of. Nobody is quite sure who suggested the idea, but it ended up being a fun time because there was a DJ and we sauntered in without paying cover and he played Thriller and Don't Stop Believing consecutively and we got really excited about that and generally had a good time before we wandered back home and adopted our very own grocery cart in a fit of intoxicated charity and thrill-seeking on the way.

So all this in mind we decided that turning the Symposium into a "night on the town" was a fairly fun idea. In fact, before we even consciously sought to do this, the town sought us out as if to ensure we would not leave it unattended by our silly quasi-victorian antics.

Directly across the street from my house, our neighbors were holding their own party. From what we gathered it was some kind of girls' night pub crawl which had attracted a large crowd of ladies who were all wearing blue t-shirts that said "Pretty Little Sailors" on them, and possibly even had a picture of a boat. This detail I am not entirely confident about. Regardless, these ladies were increasingly confused about the number of overdressed people they saw wandering into the house across the street bearing wines and desserts. Finally after several visitors and competing theories as to the nature of our gathering, they grabbed one of my arriving visitants off the street and interrogated him about the matter. After explaining himself and being set free, he reported their curiosity to the rest of us. This, we felt, could not go with only so little closure. A small group of us appointed ourselves party ambassadors, and traveled over to introduce ourselves.

This was how our first new friends of the evening were made! We discussed the natures of our respective parties, our plans for the evening, exchanged names and handshakes, They first told us all their various theories as to what we were doing, all of which painted us as gentlemen with some kind of actual legitimate motive for being dressed up as such (a recurring theme of the evening), inquired about the authenticity of our accents (none of them were real), and in return we took some group photos and trekked back to our own gathering.

After the party in my own house started to dwindle down, a spirit of adventure begin to strike up in myself and two of my comrades, Robert and Conor. The wild Charlottetown nightlife called to us, and men dressed as silly as us were in no position to deny a response. Without any clear destination in mind, we set off vaguely for the general downtown area. We made perhaps half a block of progress before meeting some acquaintance of Conor's on a bicycle who stopped to chat with so that she could inquire as to the nature of our activities, and we could probe for recommendations on our near future.

While this was going on, a man in the second floor of a nearby building opened his window to shout at us. In all my experiences in being intoxicatedly noisy in the streets at night this is generally setting the stage for being chewed out. But this man was as friendly to us as an old acquaintance! His shouting was merely to express his delight at us and what we were doing, and like the bicycle girl was quite happy to give us some pointers as to where we might spend some of our evening.

I can tell you this: carrying on a conversation late at night on the street with a stranger who is hanging out his second floor window is a delightful experience I would recommend to anyone.

And so some X's were added to our treasure map for finding evening excitement. Vic Row, 42nd Street, and Baba's. But the night held much more than mere locations. This was a night of more spontaneous friendships than I can in confidence claim to remember. And the finest example of this, I am sure is a unanimous belief in our group, was the buskers.

After perusing through Victoria Row without making any specific stops, we turned down Queen street to take a peek inside 42nd. On this route we walked by three buskers with a bucket of blueberries they were offering to share with anybody who passed by. This was as endearing as anyone could hope to be to us, and we were quickly engaged in conversation and muching fresh blueberries picked only the day before somewhere in the province of Nova Scotia.

Our new friends and we had a long conversation in which in lieu of names only stories of travel were exchanged. We spoke mainly with one, a particularly charismatic fellow, while the other two continued to play music and sing for the street. This gentleman, we learned was hitchhiking about the country, grew up in Minnesota, and had once spent a couple of weeks living with a pirate in California.

At some point, and for reasons I do not recall (although I feel as so there was actually a fairly legitimate reason), I felt compelled to tell this gentleman a particularly amazing and terrible joke about Will Smith I had recently learned (and had told to every goddamn person I know). Our new friend enjoyed it so much that he borrowed the acoustic guitar from the lady next to him and played the theme song to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air for us, with which we and several other strangers on the street sang along to in a choir of surreal and amazing 1990s pop culture celebration.

We soon parted ways with these friends, in all probability to never see them again in our lifetimes, a matter which nearer the end of the evening we discussed in great detail and ultimately felt good about. In all honesty I think there is a certain flavour of friendship that can only be experienced in making a connection with a stranger that you will never see again, and this was a particularly good taste of that friendship (not unaided by the literal taste of fresh berries that came with it.)

to be continued later when i don't have to leave for work

history class notes

Friday, June 18, 2010

night off

more fun with colouring

I'll learn to wield this thing yet

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Sunday, May 30, 2010

bought a tablet

this is fun

goofing around, getting the feel for this thing

Party Cat

Had a go at colouring something, pretty interesting

good times

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

the big sweet bro in the sky

these new sketching pencils are really fun

Monday, May 24, 2010

for my dear sweet casey

i think i probably like con air better for not having seen it.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

june bug

more fun with one of wendy's pictures

drew a horse

adventures in comprehension

doodling in class, guy next to me says "you should draw bigfoot wearing a hawaiian shirt"

so i produce this

only i wasn't joking. i honestly thought that was what he had asked for.

anyway like an hour later when we got that hilarious misunderstanding sorted out i reimbursed him with this

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

l.m. montgomery class notes

anne you've spilled your tea :<

Monday, May 10, 2010

note to self:

make "Serious Business with Adorable Animals" a reality

Sunday, May 9, 2010

big king clubs

another page of stuff

Friday, May 7, 2010


more homestuck drawings because this dude rules too hard, one of the best character designs yet.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

it's me

this time experimenting with taking something and drawing it with some of the different style elements I've been playing with

drawing is fun.

perfectly safe

couple more eerie imitations, plus some other fun

Sunday, May 2, 2010

reading, writing, drawing all day

more practicing with some of eerie's old drawings that i like


never go out in the daylight.

Friday, April 30, 2010

1.) Practice a lot

gonna just find pictures i like and try to draw them all evening

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

my new room is great

this midnight crew album rules so i listened to it while drawing some things that don't have anything to do with it

Saturday, April 24, 2010

the more you know

this guy has a box for a torso and his limbs are shaped in awkward ways that are physically uncomfortable for him but he's too busy doing demon science experiments to let it bother him

too much stagnancy

i almost forgot there about how the secret to not being depressed in the summer is to do fun stuff and accomplish the things i've been putting off

anyway i drew these

this guy is pretty sad about his finger i guess

another secret is to be a cyborg

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

dogs and post-apocalyptic mayors

andrew hussie's characters are really fun to draw, although next time i wanna play around with them a bit more


wv and serenity

Monday, April 19, 2010


I have this thing where if I alter my physical appearance in some noticeable way I feel like no one will take it seriously or something

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

old crow

he's old

winter is gone

time to have real fun

Thursday, April 8, 2010

The Player Is Alive

a monologue comprised of various lines of The Player from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead strung together by a great deal of my own interpretation.

There is no meaning in any of this. To be cast upon this stage to suffer the same dreary life again and again. To spew the same supposed profundities, to meet the same artificial personalities, to meet the same demise, every single time. What is there that can excuse this absurdity? Nothing ever varies. Life is aimed towards the point where everyone who is marked for death, dies. The bad, unhappily, the good, unluckily. We're people, you see. There is no choice involved. Events must play themselves out to aesthetic, moral and logical conclusion.

However, there is one talent that remains worth cultivating despite this unambiguity of our ending. One ability that creates that circumstance where, seen at the right angle, there escapes that thin beam of light which cracks the shell of mortality, allowing us to suspend disbelief and experience life as though it were not a mere tragedy. I am referring, of course, to the knack we are given for extracting significance from melodrama; a significance which it does not, in fact, contain. This is important, of course. Life does not itself contain these truths we see in art. Truth is only that which is taken to be true. There is nothing behind it but corpses and cadence. You cannot pretend to have anything more than this, this is where we all are. We have all been marked for death.

However, this in no way impedes us from honouring those truths we see as fit for pursuing. In fact, this is necessary. This is key. This is the single assumption which makes our existence viable. That we can suspend our disbelief, that we can trust in love, in art, and in unconvincing deaths. This is the currency of living; it is how we exploit the talents that are given to us in order to find that thin beam of light. We must perform life. If there is nothing to it, we must perform something, and believe there is. Are all the problems and situations we present the same over all time, trivial, run meaningless through repetition? Yes. But our context for them is never exactly the same, and thus we are never the same. Different people, even if they are the same people, are our observers every time. They deserve our full abilities, every time.

However, this creation of something important, something that flies in the face of tragedy, is not a task we are able to do on our own. This creation is only one side of a coin, the coin whose wealth we gain when performing something that inspires meaning. The other side is the reception of this creation. To simply create, to perform into the thin, unpopulated air, to pour our hearts down bottomless wells, to strip our souls bare in front of uncomprehending birds, this does absolutely nothing. Because of this, we depend. Our entire, self-construed meaning depends that someone is watching. That another body with a beating heart and thinking mind like ours sees what we have done and in some way, whether in hate, in love, or indifference, responds to it, then we are validated. Then we have succeeded at something larger than our one death. Though death might catch everything in the end, our one death will no longer be enough to catch all of us, who we are, which has since been seeded into the heart of another. And this is a crack in the impenetrable shell that is our own mortality.

That is what it means to mock death. To invite it in, for all ages and occasions. We do not fear death. Only when we fail to create this collaboration, this transaction of performance to reception, is death a threat to what we are. Only then does death impose itself upon us with its obscenity, when we fail to honour this truth we have invented. Only this idea of truth can create an ambiguity in our situation in which we might be allowed to believe that we have overcome tragedy. Meaning exists only where we believe we see it. Our only choice is whether or not to seek it. We are the players. That’s enough.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

horo horo horo

sometimes i like to look at other drawings and play around with them and make them not as good

oh look its

more creative writing where my brain quixotically jumps from one topic to another in showcase of a typical attempt on my part to coherently formulate an idea.

I wandered outside again. I didn't have anywhere to go, and I liked it that way. I didn't want anywhere to go, I just wanted to be out there, walking. Going. I walked down a path by a field, and I looked into the field and it looked like the most inviting place in the world. I just wandered into it. Stood there, in the middle of a field. It was big and grassy and the air felt nice, and I just looked around, like I was lost and looking for my way, except I wasn't, I was just lost.

There were some seagulls in the field with me. They were the only other thing in that field. If other people walked by they'd wonder what that guy was doing just standing there in the field. They wouldn't wonder about the seagulls, what they were doing. Nobody wonders about the seagulls. Nobody stops a seagull and demands a motivation for being where they are. That isn't expected of them. Nobody thinks seagulls have motivations. Maybe they do, seagulls have lots of motivations that they're simply unable to express in any terms that we deem valid, comprehensible. And they just go off on their business, doing what they need to.

I continued on my way. Through a ditch with some wrapping paper in it. Then a parking lot. A big, empty parking lot. I wanted to sit down in it. Just plop myself down in the middle of this big expansive empty parking lot. There were people walking by, so I didn't. They'd wonder what the fuck that guy was doing sitting in a parking lot, and I'd have no answer because it was indeed a stupid thing to do. I had no interest in formulating an answer. I mean I probably could have if I'd needed too, but who wants to do that? Who wants to think up a reason they decided to sit down in a ridiculous place, all by themselves. Impulses don't work like that. Impulses don't say "hey you need to do this because X."

Fuck it. Fuck it, I'm going back to sit in it, right in the middle of it. Am I trying to prove something to myself?

Alright, I'm doing it. I've fulfilled this important urge to sit in a big ol' empty parking lot and listen to old-skool jungle music on my headphones. The air still feels nice. My cabin fever is receding. I'm not going to shut myself up any more. This is what happens. I can't have another summer of this. This is what I've done for the past two summers. These desperate grasps in the most absurd places. I just reach my hands out and clutch and there's still a bunch of air. Which is what I expected anyway. I know what kinds of things to do, and I guess the worry is that they won't be any different than the air? Or is the air somehow important? Is it somehow important that I know about all the air?

When I walked back home, when I was inside, I turned a corner than there where people and I'm sure I jumped noticeably. There were just suddenly people snapping me out of my head. This was a new development. There were never people before, this was never done where there might be people. People were the antithesis of reaching into nothingness out of an uncontrollable need to reach after not reaching enough.

These weren't even important people, or people I knew, these were just random people I incorporated into my thought process. It's not like they were trying to do anything to me. I took their presence, and did things to myself with it, turned some cogs. Situations come in all shapes, and I just keep applying them to whatever they look like they might fit into in order to try to build something. There's no blueprint, there's never any plans. I just build, and build. Throw me some parts, I'll build. Scrap? Worn down? Ill fitting? Build. I don't feel unhappy with that. I just need to fucking build.

j. bunyan was legit as hell

wendy says:
i really am impressed by what this guy can do
being simple without sacrificing quality shows incredible restraint and prudence
Ben says:
he wrote it in jail too
what a thug
he got thrown in jail for preaching without a license and when he got out he did it again so they through him in jail again so he wrote the pilgrim's progress
wendy says:
i wouldnt mess with that guy he was probably hard as fuck
carryin a flintlock piece all hangin out the carriage hollerin at chaste bitches
layin down fat stacks of bibles

Friday, April 2, 2010

big on drawing suns

this remains one of my favourites

a switch to writing, i guess

This is a story primarily composed in my head during an adventure I had after deciding I needed to piss somewhere that wasn't my own (or preferably any) bathroom.

I sat in my room making tiny screaming noises for an hour. Objections, mostly. I was trying to read a book; it was too much for me. The words meant so much and I wanted to mean as much as these words. All I could make were noises, grunts, interjections. Standalone sounds that carried nothing, and reached no one with that cargo. I'd been working hard for two weeks and suddenly there was nowhere left to move. There was just where I was with my life to sit and stare in the eye. To yell at. To make loud, incoherent objections to. I knew the next door would open soon enough and I'd be swept along my way, carrying stuff along, leaving stuff behind, moving along peacefully, if hurriedly. But there was this moment to deal with. A large imposing moment to just sit in a room with, to stare at. Of course, there were windows. I didn't have to wait in here for the door to open. I could wait out there. Would anything be out there? More moments, likely. Bad decisions that would take me to more rooms that kept me waiting. But I was tired of taking my room and dealing with it. So I climbed out.

I dragged myself through the window. "What's even out there that's so important?" I kept asking. "Anything! Come on," was the only reply, repeated no matter how strongly I demanded more details, more specifics. It was a void, it was a complete void and there was nowhere to draw any enthusiasm from, not even a stone to squeeze, but some manic click in my brain had made this the most important thing in the world, and I dropped out from the window and ran. I couldn't tell where the ground was, couldn't feel anything meeting my feet, I could just feel motion, motion was the only thing out here. There was a sense of motion in this void that, for all its discernable details, was not in that room. This was what I wanted, it was motion. Indiscriminate motion. If I was falling or running I didn't know, I could have learned how to fly and couldn't have told you the difference. It was a sense that I was not where I had been the moment before, regardless of whether those two places could be distinguished from each other.

I soon wanted to move more and more, my desire far exceeded my physical capabilities, distorted as they were in this void. My body began to convulse; limbs jerking into grotesque positions. I wanted to reshape myself, to have my physical shape climb around into something more expressive, something more free. I was losing control; vines were growing inside my body and moving it themselves in ways I could never, ways I only felt vague urges to move that I could never understand. Their grip tightened as I relaxed myself into their motions. They began to grip my brain, squeezing it as my body writhed, as though I was in agony, which I wouldn't have been able to tell; the part of my brain that would have told if I were in agony clicked off long ago. It squeezed my brain until I'd never be able to think again. Until I'd just move. In whatever manner was compelling.

I realized as my body twisted that I could now create freely. I could shape the void, it could be what I needed it to be. It was hills, and grass. Funny shaped hills, green, speckled with plants. My twitching slowed as I laid in the grass, just looking. Seeing everything, all of this formed around me to be perfect. There was something I needed back in that room, some reason I had needed to go on, to progress. Maybe I could find it here? Maybe it could be found wherever I wanted to look. This was a happier place to look, did that mean anything? There was just this calling, this compulsion to return. I would be late. I would miss everything. It would slip away while I thought of it from here. I had stepped out too far. It was a decision, between here and there. Things weren't even bad there, when it was moving. Here was for the standstills. Here the moment unravelled itself comfortably instead of staring me in the eye, glaring.

It was okay to go back, in the end. All I had to remember was to grab on to that motion when I stopped moving. To be ready for the decision to move again to what was needed.

my life as a ghost fanart


super witchy brothers

i thought wendy's drawings looked really fun and i wanted to try one so i did and then i put a star on top.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010


i like when i don't know where i'm going with something.

while rome burns

recently it was insisted that i draw "a historical event referencing pokemon every day", "or else", and that is a proposition i am not in a position to refuse.

so i busted out the comics.

Nero was a big jerk that all the roman historians hated so they said a bunch of mean things about him in all their histories, and now he has his very own tv trope.

relaxing time wooo

finished the three essays i've been working on for the last week, all passed in, life is good again. only a few things left to do for the semester and there's a very comfortable time frame in which to do them.

last night it became very important that i draw a pokemon, and that i draw a pokemon who was also an enthusiast of cyber dating.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

back so soon

couple more and then I have to eat something and fix up a couple essays to be presentable tomorrow.

second one is just ripped off of one of eerie's old drawings of a bunch of spirits coming out of a photo of a horse statue.

shale imp wearing a suit

Finished writing my last paper for the week so I finally bough groceries, read for fun, and then drew a shale imp.

Next thing on my scholastic plate is my final project for Hamlet class, which should be fun because my plan is to write a short story based on The Player from Ros&Guil Are Dead 'cause I think he's a really interesting character and I've been thinking about him a lot lately.

just a second

i'll write a bunch of stuff here when i finish all these papers jeeeeeeez.

i'll also stop wasting time and get down to business on these papers so that can be soon.