The day 19 post is coming first because it is relevant, Goddamnit: “working for the “A.””

Do you know how much energy I have wasted avoiding doing things because I was either afraid about sucking at it/not being good at it? I was interested in science and things, but, oops! Bad at math. Only had a mediocre grade in science. Okay, never trying to be good at that again. Oh well. I’m a creative type, right? Mister moody, feelings, artsy fartsy make arts person. Who care if I am not good at science stuff, I can just art.

Oh, but I make spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. I guess I shouldn’t choose writing as my thing. I mean, I struggle organizing my ideas, right? Oh well, try the next thing. I like to draw, to bad I suck at perspective. That limits what I can draw. And I am bad at being proportionate and things. Okay, so I guess art isn’t right for me. Unless I use a medium which me to use instead of actually honing my skills so I can do what I want. And that was a catch twenty two because some of the things she taught me could have helped me do what I want, but because her goals for me were so different I just kinda shut my brain out to her/their teachings. What about music? Can’t keep time because I keep messing up notes on guitar, and music theory is essentially the math that I am so bad at. Not to mention I blew my throat screaming AC/DC when I was a kid, so I can’t reach high notes worth a damn. Maybe something less artsy? Social sciences need writing and grammar and sometimes I need to have math in their as well. Or biology. There goes those things. What about making friends, just being a social person? Oops, not the most popular. Must hate myself. What about fighting against social injustice… wait, I’m part of the problem of social injustice because I benefit from it. And people who benefit from it more use this argument to justify social injustice against me, and I use it to justify my social injustice sort of things to people who are lower on the hierarchy ladder than me. Okay, learning languages? I CAN BARELY ENGLISH HALF THE TIME.

It wasn’t till recently that I realized I spent so much time evaluating what I had done before I had even done any of it, that I never actually did anything. So focused on finding the one thing I am exceptionally good at, when each thing I tried I ran into the same problem. I realized, when it came to being good at something, it wasn’t that I was bad at it. I was new. We have a culture that shames inexperience, that shames not being perfect. I’m not saying it has to be “hippie, everyone passes,” sort of crap. I’m saying that the focus should be on doing the work, and evaluations should only be there to help us work better. Give advice on where to go next. But instead of work being the goal and evaluations being the thing that helps us along the way, we are just fucking working for an “A.” And honestly? Most detrimental thing to any career aspiration or talent development I personally had to ever deal with. 

Writing 101 16( &17), this one is adult and sad and things too

You know what I would find more than anything? Fucking tears. Tears of joy, sadness, frustration and bliss.

I would stand there, behind the fucking counter and sigh the boring day away. Then it would come in. A little monkey magnet thing. A little stuffed animal with magnets in all its four little paws. Like the one I lost as the mall when I was super young. It wouldn’t be the same one I had all those years ago, but it would be exactly like it in every way. Almost 18 years old the stupid thing would be.

I would only be able to look at it, tears welling up in my eyes. You know, that day, I learnt that there are things we lose that we never able to get back. It was the first day I think I ever felt like I didn’t have control over some aspect over my future. Those thoughts lead to the dreams where I wonder if my parents would die and I would never see them again. That if something happened, I would just have to powerlessly let them go. It lead to the night terrors that kept me up at night, the idea that I would have no ability to stop my own disappearance. That’s the real reason why pain hurt a little more than people thought it should, or I would cry a little longer than people thought I should. It was fear or lack of control. Knowing my fate was imminent. That I wouldn’t be able to protect what I want, fight for what I desired. In that one moment my confidence shattered, not because I lost a toy.  But because I had no control and had to accept circumstances. This became my attitude facing the rest of life.

Seeing that stupid monkey in my hands, I would have realized that even though there are things you can’t control, that doesn’t mean you should write off everything. There aren’t things you can’t control, but there are things that you can. That something may turn out alright. Now, I’m not just talking about hoping or wishing on a star, but working at something can have pay offs. Though not everything ends the way you expect it, sometimes you just have to not give up.

Then a little child would come sniffling to me, looking for their monkey. I would make a sad face at the monkey, then at the child, knowing that who it belonged too. I lay the monkey in the child’s hands. They skip off, running away, happy as a clam. I think about all the people I didn’t say good-bye too in their last moments, all the toys, relationships, and other things I broke because I lacked attentiveness. And more importantly, care. I realized that, care. For the world, and for others, shared mutually, would be what make things work. If we all took the time to care for us, for our world, our land, for each other, and pay attention to the little details, we might find what we are looking for.

 

(I mention my greatest fear in here somewhere, and this is definitely my style, so… yeah. I’m not lazy. Shush.)

Writing 101 day fifteen, late coming I knows (and there is some adult words in this one. Be advised. Also lots of personal opinions.)

What is something that could be canceled that would make me sad? Honestly? I know this sounds weird to say but the new Ninja Turtles cartoon. I don’t like every single thing about it, but on the whole I think it’s a smooth and well done production. It’s over the top funny, and can be over the top serious. It’s a mix of new and old things, and I feel seeing the Turtles’ progression is more obvious to see.

To see it canceled would be like when I found out “Spectacular Spiderman” was only two seasons. It was so well done, and if watched in chronological order you can see everything build up to the final episode of the second season. It was like, each piece flowed together. The chain of actions made sense, and you could see how it all fits together you saw the whole thing. The whole tapestry coming together. It took a while for me to warm up to it when it did, and I am sad it was over. Because it kicked ass.

Sorry I couldn’t think of something more serious, but it was the first thing to come to mind, and canceling the show would make me fricking frustrated. I just, there have been lots of good programs canceled for stupid reasons. I remember reading that “Young Justice” (another cartoon) got canceled because they were worried girls were watching the show, and he fucking network didn’t think they would buy the toys. Because there wasn’t fucking bright pink on them, I guess? I was so fucking angry. Like, I could go on and on from a creative stand point how stupid that sounds to me. But even from an ECCONOMIC standpoint that was stupid. Like, GIRLS WERE BUYING THE TOYS. IF THE NETWORK COULD GET THEIR FUCKING HEADS OUT OF THEIR FUCKING ASSES THEY COULD SEE THAT. Like, old fucking white men with money should NOT be the sole ones deciders of the fate of mainstream of creative content, because then this shit happens! Like, at LEAST, there should be some proper look at the demographics watching the shows. I mean, it’s sad enough when a show ends, BUT COME ON. Like, Spectacular Spiderman ended so they could make those two new pooptastic Spiderman movies! ARAIONSJKNGkdgnvkJK Nwj svsakbnasnwjgnw At least I get the economics of THAT decision. Oh. Fucking. Vey. 

Link

The forth rendition of “Picasso the monster.”

The forth rendition of “Picasso the monster.”

New Scanner, so I decided I would post this, because I love the shit out of it. To me this is the closest thing to what he would look like in a professional comic (yet).

To see other sketches/pictures of him, check out:

 http://stoodmuffin.deviantart.com/art/Picasso-456681333

http://stoodmuffin.deviantart.com/art/Picasso-2-456681658

http://stoodmuffin.deviantart.com/art/The-monster-in-colour-456794990

 

To find out who he is, what inspired him, check out: 

http://stoodmuffin.deviantart.com/art/Picasso-of-the-broken-circle-456681897

 

The plan is to make him a character in the comic. 

Writing 101 day 14 (adult themes, reader discretion advised)

Dear Meredith,

It’s been so long since I have seen you. How was your tour of duty? I hate to tell you this, sense you have been so far away for so long, but I don’t know how else to do.

We went to the park, just the two of us. Our hands interlace as the birds were singing and the sun setting. We just were sitting down when they came to talk with us.

My ears were ringing as I woke up, soaked in blood. Some mine, most of it his. They knew him from the high school, they used to play football with him when they were younger. The slurs they through still rang out in my head as I tried to see your son. I love him, and I grabbed his hands and asked him to speak with me. He held tight. He mouthed the words “I love…” then he let’s go of my hands.

I’m so sorry, Meredith. I didn’t mean to sneak behind your back, but you wouldn’t let us see each other. I didn’t mean for it to end this way. But by the time you read this the one who ended the life of the only family you have left will be gone as well.

I’m sorry again. I just, I just wanted you to know that I loved him. I loved him like you do. I’m sorry.

 

Richard.  

Writing 101 day 13

The air was of a partial frost, but not due to the temperature of the room. No, the chill was from my spine, and it spread thoroughly through the rest of my body. I wasn’t supposed to be here, I though. I had mulled over the idea of whether it was really worth climbing up to this rickety old attic. Why should I risk being bent over Grand-mama’s knee just to see if I could find that old letter? Would it explain anything? Would it be worth the humiliation of getting caught breaking this one sacred rule?

But I had to see if it was up here. Whether or not the old roomers spoken around the family were true. So I had to make my way to the big, sand dune of a chest on the other side of the room. If it existed, the roomer went, it would be in that big ol’ chest. I crept over, hoping in my young boy mind that Grand-mama’s high society tea part downstairs would distracter her from my lurking. Each step was intended to make no more sound than a drop of water, but the house bemoaned my presence each time my foot hit the ground. Not one creak of the floorboards distracted or detracted my desire to complete the quest.

I pop open the chest after clicking open the rusty buckles to see if it was there. And Staring back at me was my Granddaddy’s face, back when he was younger man. A living man. A man of unshaven whiskers and the dust of the prairies on him. A hat of cow hide leather dawned his head, and his eyes looked like they could pierce my soul.

 And on the same piece of parchment that my Granddaddy’s face was on had these words as well: Wanted, $5000.

 

(I think I failed this challenge too?) 

writing 101 day 12

(This is technically the opposite of what I am supposed to do, because I wished I hadn’t spoken up about this.)

The beat of the song hums low in my head. I can feel the eyes on me as I sit in the class room and each drop of sweat fights its way out of my face. Paranoid. They can see it. I don’t want them too, but nervousness crawls out of my eyes as I pathetically cower in my desk. The teacher taps a ruler on her arm as the song in my head gets louder and louder. Her impatience is rising as giggles can be heard and mummers are muffled in the silence. I wanted to get out of there, I just wanted to be relieved. I hold back. The pressure surmounts. My knuckles whiten as I clench my desk, hoping that nothing will incriminate me before I can escapes…

Then I pooted.

I sigh.

“Yes, I am the one who farted.”

And then my social life was even more over. 

 

(Okay I know that it’s not that serious but IT WAS EMBARRASSING DAMMIT. People gave me shit (lol) for YEARS After)

Writing 101 day ten (happy occasion food times)

This is not my favorite meal as a kid, but it ranks pretty high up. I don’t remember doing much for my 16th birthday, I guess I did a small thing with friends. The actual day of my birthday I was planning video games, and just relaxing. Then people started showing up. I was wondering what the hell was going on, and low and behold, surprise 16th birthday party. Bam. Right there.

And this birthday was memorable because of the cake. Because it actually wasn’t cake. It was a big pan of huge, awesome, delicious raspberry cobbler. Soft, yummy, tart and sweet, the most delicious thing on the planet. With ice cream and whip cream.

You guys. You guys just. No. Idea. SO…………..DELICIOUS.

That’s the best I can do for this one. There aren’t enough words to describe this beautimous thing. 

Writing 101 Day Nine (Adult themes, reader discretion advised)

He walked out of the rehab center for a final time today. He finally was given a clean slate, and will be able to start normal life again. Not to say his life was normal in before. The only thing normal about it was her. She stuck with him, supported him the whole time while he dealt with his demons. There was history of abuse in his family, abuse of substance and other wise. Whenever he got mad, to make sure he did not make the mistakes of his abusive father, he would take a sip. Only one or two each time he got angry.

Doesn’t that sound counter intuitive? He had some solid logic behind it though. Drinking even a sip of whiskey somehow whisked him away to his happy place, whether he wanted to go there or not. Whether it was a party-hardy tequila, a winning wine, a vivacious vodka, a boisterous bourbon, or a smooth scotch; he had found memories with all of them. And this way he was only repeating one of his father’s many mistakes, right? This cycle of mad-happy, mad-happy did a number on his liver even before she walked into the picture though. It made their relationship interesting.

Luckily she caught on before he went too far down the wrong path. Guess there was advantages of being someone who is determine, driven, and a general zest for life. It can rub off on you. Make you come clean. Work to change. And, to give him credit, not many are as willing to fight as hard as he did to live. To love. Though as hard as he worked it was only half as much as work as her getting the degree must have been. That is what he thinks to himself, anyway. She’s going to be a lawyer! Hell, if she works as she does now till the end of her time she could sit on the Supreme Court bench! The only thing that could possibly stop her is possible racism/sexism. And Heaven help the person who pulls any of that shit with her! John Wayne’s slinging six shooters couldn’t bury someone six feet under as fast as she could! Not that she ever has, just saying you don’t want her to attempt it.

 

 

The two of them walk through the park and come across a little old lady knitting away. He notices that she is making a small red sweater, and he starts to weep. It was like the one ‘Ma” made him when he was just a young fledgling. He sheds tears, apologizing for not standing up to him. For letting him do that to her. How age 17 his mam wasn’t there anymore. He let her die, and his father was never seen again. He clenches her arm as the pass through the tries further into the park.

This time he is going to make it, though. He is and his lady. Both going to make it on their own, both are going to make it together. 

 

(Challenge failed, I know)