You know what’s great about insurance ads? Instead of talking about their products they recycle old gags and they never get old even if they fixate on it for 30 seconds, 70 times a day for six months.
I tried drawing this person as a 40+ish year old man with a black 1980s-looking mustache but then I felt sympathy for him, which was not the point, but I couldn’t get a clear idea what stereotypical person I was angry at, so now I am not sure what it is. But I sure dwelt on this stupid thing for long enough. I need to have this away from me more then the execution needs to work. this is the sort of thing that would probably have been much funnier if I had drawn it as obnoxiously as possible in ten minutes.
Here is my base sketch to establish the concept. If I had drawn crude impressions of the idea of far side cartoons rather than directly sourcing specific ones and put blatant stupid labels on the books like “FAR SIDE LAST BOOK” instead of trying to use real covers that plenty of people familiar with The Far Side would not necessarily recognize. The cruder way it is plainly a joke, without being stated as such, and I can not be held deeply accountable for it. The eyes look less creepy because that is the natural, unnatural size I draw them at. I would not feel as ashamed putting this out somewhere and having it be ignored. The more accurate and specific something is, the harder it flops if some aspect of it is wrong. That is why John Callahan, a quadriplegic cartoonist who couldn’t draw worth a basket of tumbleweeds but was free from obsessive compulsive fears had a career and I probably won’t ever. I probably won’t die at the age of 59 from complications of a botched bedsore surgery either, but I have 26 years to dwell on what a rude thing to say that is/also become quadriplegic.
In fact that “FAR SIDE LAST BOOK” was one of the last things I changed; since I used a real cover on the other, less focal book, having the one in the center be generic looked lazy. I worked harder to make my joke less funny because I apparently would rather not look lazy than be funny, even though trying to be funny is the whole point of doing it to begin with, and it was only just barely funny. And I KNEW that but I couldn’t stop myself.
As the tentatively final version is, somebody could point out “ah HA, geico put out an ad specifically referring to a problem invented by contemporary phones, which cannot possibly have come from The Far Side.” or “ehm excuse me that is NOT the real far side panel that was used for December on the 1996 wall calendar.” I showed this to my older brother, who I only see twice a year, and whose approval I am desperate for, because he was my first idol and my last idol that still talks to me (Zartan come back, I forgive you, I forgive everyone), but who won’t look at anything I do unless I specifically show it to him, and he asked “DO they do that?” As in: DO the geico people steal old Far Side gags? Like he thought I was making a sincere political statement with this. And I had to say some waffly nonsense like no, but sort of I suppose they could maybe, like with the parrots and Tarzan and Marco Polo in the pool, you know? I felt like a profound moron. I spent hours drawing that thing, and I might as well have just have looked at Where’s Waldo books while eating chex mix and cupcakes all day. Just give up.
Nobody cares that gary larson’s dinosaurs all look generic and unscientific because he doesn’t draw elaborate shading and scales and muscles on them like i would try to.
This is how autism affects me. I cannot take hints, and nobody takes mine, so I need to be as specific as possible. But I do not have the manual dexterity to be specific beyond a certain point so everything i do turns into uncanny valley mush. And by dwelling on this so hard I am doing the same thing I accuse geico of doing (outside of airing the things repeatedly forever)
Someday I will write a great book about how not to screw up. I will spend years on it, and all the advice in it will be the opposite of whatever you should do.
Here is another example. My plan was to post this on all the usual totally redundant websites with a heading in the vein of: “the REAL reason he quit the show.” Being as vague as possible, and likely not quite communicating my point, because I always over- or under-do all things. Goopness grapejuice I’ve even digressed and overdone my story about how I overdo things.
I didn’t finish this. I noticed that once I added the font it wasn’t funny to me anymore, even though the font is approximately what it ought to be. Because once the lettering is solid, the drawing looks unsolid, but the whole is solid enough that I start to wonder: why is a Broadway show using a movie poster? Is this a movie sequel TO a Broadway show? Why would that be the case? Who specifically does/should this second person look like? Is it funnier if he is billed first? Do I need to add a background now? What sort of background would it have, and would it match the anachronistically dressed person or the historically dressed person (with anachronistic hair that we don’t talk about)?
HOWEVER, this was ultimately a positive step, since drawing this turned the Hamilton guy into a joke to me, so now when I, inevitably, see him, I think it is funny rather than annoying. I can coexist with him.
I no longer need to seek refuge in the bizarre alternate universe this New York Post headline is from in which Stephen Colbert doesn’t mention Hamilton at every opportunity. Broadcast television is still dead to me, however.
Also, I went to look up lyrics for a different show on some stupid broadway site that I didn’t realize was covered with graphics detailing all the awards hamilton (and flippin dippin RENT) had won, but when I saw they used this exact same dorky publicity shot it just made me laugh.
But then I got annoyed again when I realized Hamilton Guy also had the same approximate run of credits in “In the Heights” which I had not prior to then considered or cared if it had won anything.
Also that site is trash since it didn’t have lyrics, but the link that I THOUGHT would lead to them just went to a page to BUY tracks on i-tunes, which presumes both that I will suddenly spend money without having planned in advance to do so and that I would willingly introduce parasitic organisms into my operating system other than the 24 gigabyte folder of every pathetic redundant cash-in gameboy advance rom ever released.
And THAT was already on the hard drive when I got it! I swear. Somebody else specially installed, on my request, a 1 terrorbyte drive in the computer I bought from him, in place of the 320gigabyte drive it otherwise would have had, and perhaps he was trying to show me that I didn’t need half as much space as I thought I did by half-filling it with nonsense that I still haven’t totally sorted through (I am kidding, it was only one tenth. Come back Pez, I forgive you).
Going back to the anachronistic facial hair, I can understand if the first guy just looks like that anyway, but why does the second one, taking over the role, ALSO need to have that “I forgot to use a napkin after I ate a chocolate doughnut” beard? Alexander Hamilton didn’t look like that! He also didn’t rap or refuse to be photographed in poses that don’t make his pants look as tight as possible either, so I should excuse other fantasy aspects, but I never considered that the appearance was deliberate, like when there is an anime about Julius Caesar or something and all the men look like Sephiroth and all the women look like Sailor Moon. Also all my Japanese cultural references stop at 1997, you know that. Sometimes I wish my American ones did, too!
I never changed the front page of this website to be general purpose and remotely respectable, like I implied I ought to a year or comparable period ago. However, I have added dumb trendy social meddlesome icons at the top of the page, thereby making it less respectable, in a quick hackly attempt to have the page not be immediately confusing to people to whom I swindle into taking my bizmitz cards.
Now somebody else’s corporate trademarks are all over my page. I feel like a nascar driver. Except I am not getting loads of money. But I am not having to drive nas cars either, which is a bonus I did not foresee.
The icons are terribly ugly, and since my design sense, and more importantly my css skills are terribly lacking, all I can do is place the things in a row. If you have good design sense you can get away with terribly ugly. I have tried to get away for years but they just keep coming.
Also, with disrespect to the business cards, on the same day I changed my twitter account name from zinkugel to bimshwel. I already had a bimshwel, on which I only posted what I felt were respectable things. Since that amounted to very few things, I printed the other name on the cards, so that a person who checked might be disgusted but at least not assume I had abandoned it. But now if they check zinkugel they will get nothing, since I thought it would be confusing and non-intuitive if I simply changed the former bimshwel into zinkugel. It is now “bimshwelcomic.”
Additionally, I had not wanted there to be two bimshwels and then a yimpinkilp. There would need to be at least 3 out of 4 as bimshwel. Just 2 looks bad. I have momentary flashes of design sense if they make my work harder and prevent me from getting results. I feel like the more stupid websites there are, the fewer people I know on any one of them. So now I have to put the exact same thing in 17 different places, to reach about 12 people. And of course the more time I spend doing that, the less I can concentrate on production of the things I am showing. So it seems like I am getting more and more enthusiastic about worse and worse things. Which would be great, if it were true; gushing about garbage is how you make friends in ternet, but in actuality I am just tired. No time to rest! However, for once this means safety conditions will improve because my “job” is to draw unfortunate beings getting hurt, and if I cannot do it well, everyone’s health should improve.
I was going to have the icons hanging from the inside of this moron’s wing-skin, as if it was trying to sell the things in violation of law, but I have no idea how to make individual parts of a picture clickable. Image-maps are a nightmare of 1990s era html. What I can do now is make separate images for each (like I have done) and enter x and y coordinates for each of them (but not their entire areas as I would need to with an image-map), and then figure out how to make them not jump around separately at different screen resolutions. But they would have to be very tiny, wouldn’t they! And that smiling big-snouted fool would need to be terribly prominent on my page. Although I like the idea of such useless trinkets being offered by such a clueless individual. Hey dork, nobody would EVER pay you for those stupid icons! And it would keep on smiling.
This notice recently accosted me on the deviant-art website. Obviously deviant-art is a silly website full of trash-marketing-vulnerable adult babies, but everything is –we have bred several generations to whom that is normal– so I can hardly be faulted for lingering there if I linger anywhere. While I do gripe at my getting coercion to become an under-compensated advertising vector for a major corporation disguised as a legitimate opportunity shoved at me, but unique to today I will gripe at the content of what I am to be advertising.
A question: How can I sincerely believe that the friendship is “unlikely” if you already told me it happens? And how can I believe that in any event, based on the past 20 years of animated cinema?
I have seen plenty of human children teaming up with, and usually riding on big misunderstood oafs, human or otherwise. These kids need to get stepped on once in a while to make it seem less likely when they do not.
And there are even more such pairings where there is a tiny little thing and a big thing but both are considered to be adults. And I have heard tell this is not even the first time a cartoon apatosaurus has taken on strange companions and journeyed forth. It is a functional setup. I grant its right to happen, but not to pretend it is profound.
I am not even here to fuss at any of these movies, specifically (least of all Totoro, whose film did not get an America hype-job until years after its production). For one thing, I haven’t seen more than promotional material for any of them.* But I doubt that any person who did watch these films would sincerely proclaim: I never expected those two to become friends! That twist took me completely by surprise!
*Actually, the book Where the Wild Things Are was in my house during the pertinent period of my development. I recall not being impressed.
And anyway, in this case, I am being instructed to evaluate the film exclusively based on its promotional material. It will not be released to theaters until November 25, five whole days after the contest entry deadline!
To be fair, dinosaurs generally are not big thinkers.
He is intimidating because I say he is. Even though I also said his scar makes it apparent visually, and I included a picture, and so I don’t need to say anything. But I have space and so I must say and say and say!
The contest page is full of character descriptions, terrible artwork and rogue plot details. Essentially I am to base my masterwork on a webcomic cast list. Many details, very little meaning. And if the event organizers believed for T seconds that any development, not necessarily restricted to friendships, were at all unlikely, they would be cautious about spoiling it for me! They would want me to be surprised. But they actually know that there is no chance I would be surprised. Go into a movie without knowing exactly what’s going to happen? Why that’s Unamerican!
And only americans can enter the contest! I knew a single person who found that Lorax movie at all endearing, and the person lives in Estonia.
My task in this adver-tunity is to donate free promotional “fan” artwork to stir up hype for the thing before it comes out. I am supposed to endorse it, and pledge to it considerable effort, based entirely on stuff I am told about it by another party, without any guarantee of payment, even if it turns out to be garbage that I would not want my name attached to.
How could I, and why should I be a fan of something that isn’t available? How could I know anything about the power of their friendship or the spirit of their adventure? I am suspicious any time somebody has to tell me an adventure happened or is happening.
In fact, another dumb movie where all the exact same stuff as before happens, that you tell me about before I am even eligible to see it: that is the OPPOSITE of adventure. Just as fan art is the opposite of original art! It isn’t even POSSIBLE to do what the contest demands.
Why should I be inspired by what some context-devoid list says each character supposedly is or does? I might as well draw fanart for the Michelin Man. At least that would be by my own inclination. And potentially less ugly. I hate those “eyes too close to each other on the front of the head” pixar character designs anyway, but ESPECIALLY on dinosaurs. “Good” is only in the title as a form of mind control because my natural inclination would be to proclaim these dinosaurs as less than adequate in quality.
The contest also encourages me to view the film’s trailer. Trailers exist to simplify, exaggerate and mislead. And to stop the music abruptly so I know what I am supposed to laugh at. I avoid the Star-Wars previews because I want to see the movie without knowing anything. I avoid the the Good Dinosaur preview because I just plain don’t want to know anything. That does not invalidate my earlier complaint; I probably would not watch the film, but I absolutely would not create a derivative work paying homage to its virtue unless I HAD watched it.
And it probably isn’t as terrible as the advertisement inevitably presents it as, but it most certainly isn’t as good as post-release praise will swear it is. Why try and force me to swallow that in advance? Apart from “because we are getting paid by Disney to hold this contest,” I mean. And that is “we” as in them, not me. Unless I win, which I wouldn’t, because I hate it. “It” as in all that has transpired this evening.
Friday the 28 – Saturday the 29 interval: Good news! I have a word heap that will be ready to display in the morning, which needs merely to be proofread with a mind clear enough to see errors but not enough to know better. The bad news is that I was kidding about that being good news.
Everybody knows how much I love the website “tumblr.” Everybody is also occasionally confident of erroneous information. “Tumblr radar” is a section of the website layout for identifying “hot” circulating objects, as a convenient and benevolent means to ensure popular stuff gets more popular. However, in practice it generally just shows really bad artwork from a limited range of grotesque styles.
This is the first thing I remember having a problem with. “why the heck is this artless piece of trash on the ‘radar’.png” I asked, unaware in May of 2011 that this was the radar’s primary function and that we would continue to regard each other in the same way for the duration of our relationship. I had a minor rainbow breakdown in November of that year, and didn’t even need to incorporate this picture because it’s so consistently done and unoriginal and so consistently praised for being original.
I’ve seen rainbows come out of every possible orifice, but almost nobody ever eats one. Although it is difficult to tell which direction this one is travelling in, the idle teeth suggest involuntary action. For decades the Skittles company has invited us to taste the rainbow but never to overindulge to the point that we can no longer contain it within ourselves. This picture is “original” in the respect that the protagonist does not have a horse-like shape.
Afterward I had this labeled “tumblr radar tops itself by tunneling beneath the worst thing it showed me previously.” I don’t seem to have kept a record of them prior to this. Now I reevaluate my position because though it took absolutely no effort and brings me no joy to look at, i can at least swallow a piece of food while it is visible. Even if it is a rainbow excretion orgy it’s being run on Atari 2600 hardware before they figured out how to make those gradient backgrounds.
This is literally a picture of typed characters. Why do i bother? Even the infinite monkeyss at typewriters would be disgusted to have this shoved at them as an example of success.
I’m not proud of you for remembering something that somebody else said! Even if that person’s name rhymes.
Oh I just noticed that says “explodingdog” on it. I’m not looking to know what that is but I’ve seen that particular random combination of words before. Sure that and toasty frog and flying omelette and dresden kodak and
There’s no subject matter that people who can’t draw and can’t think like better than coffee (except rainbows issuing from bodily orifices and food with faces). Coffee + bad art + high exposure + underlining how lame it is = MORE exposure.png. Yes the whole internet must know that somebody approves of coffee (and bagels, the world’s least exciting food after wheatabix). Rather than stand up to their expensive addiction or peacefully coexist with it they gleefully pay homage to it. It’s the exact same way cigarettes were treated in the 1950s. Except cigarettes are only expensive now because of unfair taxes on them; coffee is obscenely overpriced just because the people who sell it feel like obscenely overpricing it. Maybe 20 years from now there will be anti-coffee campaigns, taxes and lawsuits and trendly sorts will have a replacement religion based around waiting in line every singular day-length-period to pay to have themselves punched in the stomach while experts assure everyone there are no longterm health detriments to doing that. I eat ice cream because I like the way it tastes, but I’m not nearly proud of myself for doing so.
Have you heard? I quit.
If you’re too late to be fashionably quirky, you can always get by on pointlessly disgusting (but don’t forget the teeth). An entire generation of animators who watched Ren and Stimpy and never found a fault in it have proven that.
At this point I considered that it might be necessary for me to disable the radar entirely. Tumblr provides no means to do that, but browser extensions have been designed to do the deed. I never installed one because I also considered that I would probably write something like this and might want a better horror selection at such a time. I hate/appreciate me. Having fulfilled that, I have today concealed the thing. I am a questionable entity.
What the orp even IS this thing? I had to look at the large size version to figure that out, and I still couldn’t tell. Is it cells under a microscope? Is it a geographical map with the color balance altered? Is it a dirty kitchen floor? Is it a spoiled wheatabix? What I do know is that it looks like nothing I want to see, and digging and doing research to find out what it IS wouldn’t change that. However I suspect if I went outside and dug I’d eventually find something this reminded me of.
I see this same artist or somebody utterly indistinguishable far too often. The same hemispheric line mouths with the same large dot eyes directly at the ends, the same parallel, turned-on-the-side feet that would be incapable of bearing weight. If you see a piece of food or a popular electronic trinket with limbs and a face it’ll probably be one of these, especially if it’s printed on a shirt. And fine, one person can have a style. But copying it bothers me. I consider art “better” during the ages of guilds and mass apprenticeship because people who could copy but not create had a greater standard to silently adhere to. Unfortuantely all they were allowed to paint were Jesus and hills. Now people are free to draw any sort of things, such as bands they’ve been ordered their whole lives to think are great. Or at least as long as their recent marketing surge has persisted. Do you remember what a huge deal it was when the Beatles songs were at last at first available on utines? Even though Beetols have had every single album of theirs available at every single record store since they existed? And that even stuff that they didn’t finish or remember they’d made was just as hard to not find? Well I hope not; I’ve currently forgotten if I put that complaint in an entry already and I’d hate you to know I was repeating myself.
When did people get the idea that it was alright to draw feet like that? 1493bc in Thutmose’s tomb? This is the “I’m about to fall over and twist my ankle” pose. Hopefully those little saran wrap box toes don’t brush up against any flesh in the process.
In fairness to the radar, somebody reblogged this at me, after several thousand other people expressed, I’ll assume, approval. I reduced the size for the sake of consistency and a misguided belief that nobody has a problem with me copying their pictures if I keep them tiny, but I should make clear that for every basic large natural detail that mystified the artist there is a tiny fully rendered round tooth protruding from the mouth (and then a strip of three stuck together). These people love to draw teeth. I had to stop looking at my queue entirely because even people I liked invariably liked stuff I hated enough to tell everybody about it with such regularity that I could no longer look at my flow of updates at all without getting so mad that I wrote a brooding paragraph about it each and every time. This wasn’t even one of those things, and look at what a state I’ve entered over it.
Ah great, back to getting mad at people I have no tangential relationship to. Is there a law against being able to draw and getting on here? I figured out from the comments that one or both of these floating torsos is from a television show. I couldn’t tell what and didn’t care to remember. The drawing is still not a thing of such magnificence to be broadcast all across the land. You don’t need to upload everything you thoughtlessly doodled on an envelope during a telephone conversation. The second one at least shows an attempt to be done better, but it comes across as creepy because there’s so much no detail and suddenly heavy cheek lines, a bloody-lipped semi smile and eyes that don’t appear to be facing any direction. I suppose it’s progress that I have a clue where to start complaining, rather than being baffled into irrelevance..
I dare you to put a picture by somebody who can draw on there. Although now that I have turned the thing off I’ll never know if my dare is received, and thus it may be. I am selfless and beneficial to society. And so tonight I will sleep and not worry what innocent person I’ve needlessly wronged by complaining about what they made and exhibited for free and never asked to have shoved in my business.
Last time I mentioned some gay stuff.
Was it truly news? Indeed a few years ago I referred to a creature holding my old camera (and to date the only camera I’ve had that would allow me to take a picture in the dark) as a “gay wizard,” but I never identified it as me. And I still haven’t!
The line about “odd fondness” from the previous notice I wanted to redact; I don’t like the idea of people thinking I’m even capable of an odd urge for anything, imaginary or otherwise. I wanted to prove it was possible, that odd focuses didn’t have to rule everything. Anyway, back in the past, even after one note’s worth of caveated gayness I already doubted that I was in a good situation, as the one which followed it exhibits, somewhat more mopily, after what interval I cannot guess:
2009, 2010 or thereabouts
At last I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand it. It seems like such a waste of time, and like such an easy thing for one person to take more seriously than the other. “Sweet nothings.” I always hated that phrase. Meaningless statements that do nothing more than reaffirm a person’s validity to itself. That sort of thing shouldn’t be necessary. I tried to keep myself from soliciting it. Yet once I started getting something that resembled it I felt entitled to it, and worthless when it was cut off. And why? Since I never deserved it to begin with, short of the other person coming to its senses I don’t know what changed. Apparently now I need someone to say nice things to me and create the impression that they are meant, and fairly regularly.
I do not want to need this. It makes me feel psychotic. It makes me want to interrogate this other person as to why it is “avoiding” me, and once you’ve shown that you’re suspicious you can never yourself be trusted again, I don’t think. And the truth is that I’ve been suspicious of just about every “friend” I’ve ever had. This one just hurts more, and so I feel more desperate to take actions I will regret. This is not good. I have actual problems that are already hard to solve. Saying “I cannot solve this problem because somebody won’t return my calls even though obviously he’s around because I see him leaving comments on other people’s pages who do they think they are,” is not a proper way of handling them.
Love? I do not want to love this person. We both have more important things to do, and I don’t think he thinks he’s gay. I don’t think I am but over purely semantic disagreements. English is a stupid language that is hard to learn because it uses one word to mean a bunch of things. “Sex” can refer to simply biological characteristics but also to an act that I find repulsive, and thus I avoid both of the word’s uses, as well as any word which contains it.
“*hugs*” That was new to me. I thought that was a special thing. It isn’t. Everybody gives *hugs* to everyone else. I only wanted to give *hugs* to one person. I only want *hugs* from a person I would actually like to hug.
I understand that if a person who made you, I, me, feel like the best thing in existence suddenly appears to feel differently, how morale can suffer. However, I am old (26 years at that point) to be experiencing this for the first time. I have no resistance to it. Howeverer, I am also too sensible to convert this into aggression against others, and I’m too optimistic that I’ve misunderstood to challenge the person who is making me feel this way, and so I have no proper release for this raging lamentation.
In a way, it was all I had. Loving another was not a thing I expected to happen, and I don’t expect it to happen again. I acknowledge it is possible, but when it happened it was highly unusual. It was like tripping over the tip of a complete dinosaur skeleton buried in the ground when I walked outside to get my [household’s] mail. I don’t think there are many complete dinosaur skeletons still buried anywhere, much less right underneath the surface in a densely populated area below sea level. I can currently not remember what it was that drove me forward just a year ago, before I had known the good part. And I get little enough done as it is.
I can’t hate him. Writing this I still believe I have possibly misunderstood. Even if I haven’t, and it’s true, I know he suffers a lot. A lot of pain, a lot of sickness, a lot of misjudging, a lot of psychotic people on the internet (some like me, some not so much). I know that I have little to offer beyond awkwardness and neediness. I thought he was comfortable with that. I felt welcome. I felt needed. I don’t know that I can forget that unless it happens again. Although this recent thought of mine suggests that the acceptance and approval, and above all the special position of note were in part imagined by me and not deliberately made to seem that way by the fellow, I enjoyed the delusion. It was real-er to me than some blurry 3-d movie might ever be.
He did some things I thought were questionable, and he gave some justifications that I found questionable, but I could usually get my mind around them. I like to think I am not a proud person, but I suppose I am. However, this pride is easily melted.
The love is nice while it lasts, but devastating when it’s done, much like “food” from Taco Bell. Any amateur dietician will tell you should not eat the taco bell stuff. Popular consensus is that Taco Bell is bad while love is good.
There are a lot of lonely people out there. I’m glad there are people who will listen to them, but they should not let it go this far. We want very desperately to be loved, and will misinterpret anything we can. I’ve seen this before, but this is my first time from the inside.
it’s sort of like that 2004 King Kong movie, where the gorilla loves the tiny little human even though there’s no possible way they can consumate the relationship, and the human has to act like she loves the gorilla because the script tells her to. So at this point, I’m already far enough up the empire state building that falling off will kill me, but I am determined to do more damage when I fall than I currently would. Also, I just remembered that I’m only a regular sized gorilla that can’t finish college and that nobody really cares about one way or another.
By here I clearly have realized that I am writing a personal disaster memoir. Still a solid year before the dumb pony mishaps. Most of my haps are mishaps. It has lost all attempts to be amusing, though what I followed it with might still be sort of interesting for the truly perverse, and I don’t even say “raging lamentation” again. Fortunately I’m not desperate enough for their interest today to seek it, and so I shall cut it off here. Ideally it won’t be seen again.
I received a few messages of support after last time; I very much appreciate those, but I hope it did not appear that I was depressed! I was, but due to an accumulation of a number of factors, and this whole thing just happened to have resurfaced, it came to find me in the midst of them during November, two months after I had been glad it was “done” before my classes started, and at one moment the thought struck me that I absolutely had to get this stuff out “now,” but it’s nothing at all new. Yet I’d like to leave as much of it in 2011 as possible. I had three rather stressful classes, and the one easy class, introduction to theatre, which late into the semester required me to read the text of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, which is astoundingly not actually about that. Rather it tells of a disabled, ambiguously gay introvert surrounded by people with funny names and who won’t talk to his becancered father and who can’t be with the person he loves. In fact it’s worse than that, since the the “friend” Skipper kills himself over the gayness, and in the film version, which won’t acknowledge that gayness exists since it was made in the 1950s (which was kind of the point of the play, that these people are marginalized and made to feel ashamed, but rhubarbrhubarbcatroof), Skeepah is simply an all-around failure, and I couldn’t decide which of the pair I had more in common with, but somebody’s dead and it’s either me or my fault. I’m awful.
In fact the object of my afflictions is still alive, thankfully…I may have inadvertently implied that he wasn’t when I said I never had an opportunity to say how I felt; the issue there was that he always had a remarkable way of not getting messages, or setting things up so that he could say he hadn’t.
Even when we were on good terms too often I’d be talking to him -not even “away”- in a message thing and then he’d disappear, and then reappear the next day and be unaware of everything I’d said. Even if I’d just said “hello,” that kind of thing gets draining after a while. And he doesn’t read his email, so the only way to make absolutely sure he sees something is to post it in some sort of public space where
Oh that’s no good. But the automatically generated notice at least is totally tactful and reasonable, in the usual vein, o lucrative memetrepeneurial art site.
I still do not hate him. I wish I could! If he called me today I would become ludicrously cordial and probably back down considerably from any unpleasant things I typed here, which was a theme brought up in The Sound of Music, another film I watched while upset. (I wonder if my choice viewing material isn’t my real problem; I also caught myself sympathizing with King Arthur and Enry bloody Iggins (Judas as well but I don’t think he was supposed to have been in love with Jesus at any point)). Hating would be much easier. To have no doubt, to be confident I had done the right thing, or the rightest thing which was at the time feasible. I am moreso than I was but I never totally conquered it. Reliving being “blocked,” like right now, by going to his page to take a picture of the block notice, and also seeing who else he’s been talking to since it first arrived, isn’t helping.
Still I’m grateful for the anger sometimes, and hindsight now leaving me thus rather than sad. It makes getting over the situation (or absolutely not getting over it but coexisting with it without hating myself as much as I have potential to) easier. I’d hate to look back and see stuff I’d did that was awful and that I regretted. Which I know because I spent the first half of this year doing it! So next time I will resume attempting to be interesting, unless something else stupid happens.
This is most distressing!
I mentioned something last [occasion of updating]. If you read it you might have thought it odd how bent about I was becoming due to a “friend” and wondered if I am a totally unstable maniac. I am but that’s not why I said that. In fact it was, to me, a love sort of thing toward the masculine pronoun’d friend. And right now you might be saying hey i didn’t know you were- and first of all yes you did, and second it isn’t how you might think.
Perhaps I might be gay in some emotional capacity, but I have no fondness for very gay imagery any more than very “straight” imagery.
My open-mouthed grimace of disgust is not a thing that I bother to fake, much less while alone, yet I know it well.
While my infatuation was going on, I greatly wanted to say so publicly, but feared to, worried that the target might be embarrassed, or would not fully reciprocate it. And when it was over (meaning a year before I understood that it was) I again feared to say something because I had never made it relevant, and also because he might change his mind if I kept quiet and it would not be over, but it would definitely be over if I brought up my grievances, I thought. Rather convenient for him, I now suppose, who continued to confide in me some rather difficult things for another few months after I felt I had personally ceased to matter before he found another to take the job and I was reassigned to stable chores. For convenience let us call him “W.” It’s probably not difficult to find out what his actual name is and that it is devoid of Ws and yet he must be called something and that is the letter I chose.
It has nothing to do with this image; he only answered about 3 of the 47 or so calls I made during the relevant time period and I’d have been as fortunate to get such a frank summation of which behaviors of mine were undesirable.
Though the exact contents vary by the season, I have been having cyclical arguments in my own mind fairly consistently for the past two years as the relationship gradually dissolved into nothingness and then continued in motion to re-form into something unpleasant and indescribable because I absolutely could not let go of it. It may be the case that I must display such unbalanced vitriol and misanthropy in this place to totally ensure that not W or anyone would ever wish to deal with me again. I will be better for it, as will they.
I think the section below is mostly from 2009. A pity there is no date on it and the only image referenced prior to my finding and putting it here is from before even then (and I have forgotten who I stole it from). I kept something of a like, dislike-themed journal in a text file but neglected to record any dates. It is interspersed with personal messages for W, or pieces of them, which I never sent, prior to my devoting a separate file exclusively to messages I did not send once I no longer had anything to say to myself. Those are harder to read, because first of all just the way people talk when they’re in love is disgusting whoever either of them is, and then imagine how much more daft and infantile this is when only one of them actually is in love. But the sight of myself treating W in a merely diplomatic, sometimes reverent manner is now even highly upsetting, as is the thought of my not unloading every bit of honesty, of love or of distaste, at the soonest possible opportunity. For in the end I never had a chance to do either, which means I have to tell “you” or it will never go away, and I can’t do that without trivializing the issue with ludicrous edits and pictures, because I would think it boring otherwise, and I won’t post something that I think is boring!
Unless I absolutely have nothing else. Guess which today’s is? Thankfully I need to know somebody can read it more than they actually have to.
On Sunday, my mother asked me if I ever thought that I might be gay. I wanted to say I was worried that I might not be! But that is not what I really worry. I worry that I might be one or the other. “Gay” is a synonym for “homosexual.” I am not sexual. I do not want to be. I think naked people objects are horrible. I can experience love for people without that being a requirement. It is a stronger desire for companionship than a mere friendship, and that is why I thought it was love, but you can’t tell people that without them demanding a stronger confession. Nobody believes it. The only way I’m sleeping my way to the top will be if I take some Rufinol on a ferris wheel. That joke might be pretty gay.
Have I CONSIDERED it? Certainly, when you’ve had antagonists angrily informing you that you are for more than half your life you must have considered it.
Whatchoo lookin’ at, fag?
It had been deduced by some of my behaviors that I loved a man, and from some old biological evidence that I myself should have been one by this point. It may also have been considered that I went to a “furry” convention last year (the year before 2010), even though by and large I find that embarrassing. That is relevant because we met there. I was so glad to do so that it triumphed over my embarrassment for the first time in my life that I can remember.
No, of course I’ve known I’m “different” for a long time. I find “faggot” offensive because it’s a hostile word, and I find people who willingly embody the stereotypical “mmm-hmm oh thnap” connotations of the word embarrassing, much as I regard the “man up, toss me a beer uh oh THE GAME is on” oafs at the other end. This does not constitute me “coming out” of anything because it doesn’t make my life any easier. I do not feel liberated. I feel just as behind schedule and under-achievy as before.
Being GAY would be easy! Not as easy as being “straight,” but it’s easier than it’s ever been at any point in history. There is a clear cut niche in society for it that more and more non-gays are perfectly alright with having be there (and they’ll be ridiculed if they let it become apparent that they aren’t). There are entire towns for it. There is gay FOOD. There are gay PETS. If I were a gay, I could enjoy the highest rated program on television. All of these are stereotypes, but if I were gay I could get offended by them!
If I were gay I could pretend that many of the nation’s highest ranking celebrities were pretending to care whether or not I was legally entitled to marriage. And yet just as with furries, as with the aspies whom I’ve aborted at least two articles about, I do not feel one with the gays. I may share some of their fights, but I do not belong with them. I want to belong to something, but I have yet to find a thing that will have me and that I similarly wish to be had by. Many people do not find this in life, but force themselves to go along with whatever seems like it might work, and that may be my destiny.
In fact, I have more out-coming to do before I will feel any relief, THAT one isn’t going to happen except by accident (unless me from the future goes ahead and puts a potentially pertinent picture that I haven’t even made yet above this paragraph), and anyhow at that point I will still be a be an under-achievy behind-scheduler. I have odd fondness for things which do not exist which I cannot tell anybody about. Thankfully, their feelings cannot be hurt. And before you skip to conclusions, I do not spill fluids over the comics I upload here. But if I did that would never be the point and you wouldn’t know when. I really shouldn’t have said that.
The person that I appear to be “gay” at is not gay. I told him that I loved him, in a letter that I wrote (on real paper even), but I had to add disclaimers to the effect that it was largely deprived of meaning… I wanted to deprive it of the meaning that I did not intend, but I lost more than I wanted to. I wanted to say “I would like to see you every day and know everything about you,” but that’s weird. It’s like the “uncanny valley,” with artificial representations of human beings. It’s endearing up to a point and then it gets really creepy if it goes too far but doesn’t quite connect. The “valley” is the drop in tolerability between “sort of real” and “real” when viewed as a two dimensional line graph. That’s why nobody likes Cyclops. He’s the only one that’s really into being such an uncanny ex-man. I like his stupid poses in the unwinny-ble Super Nintendo X-Men game, though.
He (no not Cyclops (as far as you know)) knows I “love” him in the letter but I cannot casually insert “I love you” into conversations. I assume. I don’t want to risk it. I have historically been oblivious to when my own tolerability has run out, and now I take so many preventative measures that those become even less tolerable.
For example, though this memorrhoid continues, I am taking the measure of temporarily concluding it here instead of trying to edit the second note into comprehendability. It will be less effective when I do show it because I’ll have to spend three paragraphs setting it up again. And so I have failed. Who has won?
It would be the first time!
You agree with me that 1 am is way too late for the idiots a block over from me to be blasting corny music all over the place, don’t you?
Dear loyal bimshwel customers: I’m deadHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH APRULFOOOOUHAGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHG I’VE BEEN SHOT
HA HA NO I HAVEN’T!GOTCHA THAT TIME AYPRALLL FOOOOOOOOHHHHHHNOOOOO I’VE BEEN SHOT AGAIN!
NOPE NOT REALLY! HA HA HA HOOOGOSH DEAR FLOOPITY I’VE LAUGHED SO HARD I’VE CAUSED MYSELF MORTAL INJURY NO I HAVEN’T
HA HA HA HO NOW IS THE TIME WHEN I LAUGH NO IT ISN’t YES IT IS HA HA HA H
And now I am sad.
YES INDEEDNO NOT REALLY
Here are some things. You may have seen them before. Maybe not.
Don’t you know, this is a PRIVATE beach.
It is supposed to be a thing getting shot at and struck by arrows. It does not look like that. It looks like a thing standing around with either Nintendo graphic glitches or nothing attacking its right leg. Oops. I will hope for better luck next time.
The castle guards, those who have defended themselves with the arrows, are either invisible or possessors of ant like strength to lift such comparatively big, almost ballista bolt-sized arrows with. I kept the guards intentionally unseen because I thought it was funnier that way. You see the castle, then you see the arrows, then you look back at the castle and wonder. If there were visible little men running around in it, the creature would have approached more cautiously. I like it being ambushed and being stunned by the ambush. With a single image, by me, this is the only way it can work. But that does not mean that it always will work, and on this occasion it did not. And so I wish myself to make a better effort in the future.
Somebody wanted a “shoreline themed” image, specifically regarding United-State Connecticut’s shore line. Several pictures, actually. I only made two, though. And you might suggest to me that armadillos don’t live in or near Connecticut, and I would (I know myself better than I know you, after all) respond by pointing out the many differences between that thing and an actual armadillo (and that is why you should never ever talk to me). In fact, these do not live anywhere, for they do not exist. Go directly to school. Additionally, I exaggerated the likelihood of a sand construction recognizable as resembling anything existing in this place. I know, I tried to build one to use as a model and it was impossible.
You know how sometimes people will claim something they made is “bad” but they’ll show it to you anyway, expecting compliments? I won’t even do that.
This Aztec eagle thing that I made without trying, just by digging my fingers into the ground so to grasp sand for lifting looks better than the castle I attempted to make. Part of the trouble was that I did not want to actually sit on the ground, preferring instead to awkwardly semi-crouch around, which is painful and not helpful, only cleaner. Also, the people who make “real” sand castles bring their own special sand for the purpose (as I understand it). And in that case I ask: why even use sand? If it’s not the stuff you’d find on a beach, why bring it to a beach? Why not just sculpt it in your house? Why not use a more permanent medium that you can actually save? Why make castles all the time? Some people don’t make castles, but overwhelmingly they do. In addition to bringing their own sand, they also have sculpting tools, experience and clothing they don’t mind getting sand on. Elitists.
Getting back to the failings of the thing I made and did show you, the only realistic aspect of it is that dreadful pink house. I’ve been seeing that thing for years; one [human (me)] would think I could produce an accurate representation of it without endless redraws and multiple references. One, as usual, is dreadfully misinformed, as the house is just normal dreadful. However, at the time of this picture making I did not guess how dreadful it could be.
The pink house now has a stupid pitiful fence around it. We don’t want anybody touching our precious sand, does we! You can still see the house, and any person weighing more than a pumpkin could easily topple the thing, so why is it there? To make me mad! I’m glad they’re thinking of me, but not enough that I am no longer mad.
It showed up about two weeks ago. One week ago I discovered an attempt to put a fence around the marsh, despite the fact that nobody can walk in the marsh and there’s no reason, logical or otherwise, to attempt to restrict passage by tall, bipedal humanoids into it.
Oh, somebody’s a fancy katydid now.
The walkway is admirable. Now instead of having to wander into the road and then down a short path to the beach, a few people can walk down a slightly shorter path to the beach that nobody else can walk on. I don’t know enough about marshes to be able to say what natural life this harms, but I can complain about the gate: id ecch: why is there one? Even the Heaven’s Gate cult made more sense than this one. People feel a need to announce “I made this path, only I may make walk on it.” Nobody but you wants to go to your dopey house anyway! I might have wanted to visit, but I changed my mind when you started to build a fence around the marsh. Sneer! All these fences are new. They were not here ten years ago. What prompted this? These people would put a fence around the moon if they could. Then they would put a fence around that fence.
No, I am not going to blame nemitz for all fences in the galaxy. I know you’re disappointed. I promise to yell at nemitz about something later.
I always either do too much research or too little. All the New England fish that I like are ocean fish. A lot of grey, ugly fish in the “fresh” water around these parts. And then I find out that the two dopey imps prominent here don’t actually exist. Hopefully I can keep that a secret.
I wanted to put a viking ship in the background but I forgot until I had already put the other ship there. They pillaged the part of my brain that remembered to put them in there. They also pillaged all my good viking jokes. Chris Browne offered to buy them but changed his mind when he saw that only my good jokes had been stolen.
My setting this time was less scripted than the one with the beach. Because of that it took much longer but looks just as mundane. How do I do it?! (sorcery)
The pile of boots was the hardest part. It’s still not quite clear what that is without prolonged investigation. Must tend to later. Probably won’t.
The boots were the hardest part to draw, I mean. Overall, that reddish thing toward the left gave me the most reason to be upset.
Yes, of course I was talking about you! That doesn’t mean you’re special.
Obviously we are collecting boots today. I don’t see how you could have POSSIBLY messed that up. Hey, fool! We are not catching fish here. And yet you caught one. You couldn’t even catch cholera by eating food or drinking water contaminated with the Vibrio cholerae bacterium, and still you caught a fish. Good job. “Good” as in “opposite of good.”
This is a first grade concept. I guess you would know that if you weren’t in the orange reading group, that’s only up to level two skillpack booklets. You probably aren’t even aware that
Knowing what I now know about what you don’t know, I would most certainly not be
I don’t know what’s dumber: that they’re deliberately catching boots or that NEMITZ is too dumb to not accidentally catch fish. And it, as usual, refuses to accept the consequences for its own incompetence. You, NEMITZ, knew you weren’t supposed to do that, but you did it anyway, and then you pouted when scolded. Bad, bad nemitz. As we see here, nemitz can NOT handle criticism. Hey, thing, you did a bad job! You can’t consistently, exclusively do things poorly, do things WRONG and expect to be tolerated.
It’s bad enough that you’re naked, but how dare you appear before me without your shading on? Disgraceful! Meet me on the battlefield!
June 29? I am trying to write something about toothpaste. Hopefully you can excuse me for not having the rushes of inspiration and motivation necessary to finish quickly.
June 27: I’m not sure if my left eye actually hurts or if I just imagine it is in pain because every time I see it in a mirror it more and more resembles planet Jupiter.
Busy busy busy. How am I always busy? Where are the time and effort going? (away)
June 25: I’m not surprised that Michael Jackson is dead today. I’m surprised that he was alive yesterday.
Why go to the restaurant? Just watch its page on the facebook. This sign is near the place, and the address confirms that (It confirms that if you are there in person and know where you are), but advertising an actual product or service was pre-nine eleven thinking. They trust that I will go to some website and type in their name more than they trust me to just go straight to their own website. Or their place of business where I give them money.
And yes, I did go to the face book, locate the search space and type “cuckoo’s nest” into it, but only for the purpose of researching my complaint about the sign telling me to do that. If I thought it was a good idea… I would have also done it. I suppose. But all this is irrelevant because either way a business has paid for a sign which tells me to do a thing which gets the business no dollars.
I guess the idea is that you go home and watch the page, so that the place can periodically remind you that it exists on occasions when you might not otherwise have considered visiting it. Which is fine, from a marketing standpoint, but as an internet user I find it pointless. I joined facebook to better communicate (in theory) with family members and friend members who do not dare engage me directly. I get absolutely nothing out of confessing to the emotionless second-hand webpage of some joint that I enjoy visiting it. And I don’t like visiting it, really. I like Margarita’s and Across the Border better. We mustn’t forget Jalapeno Heaven, either. Even Baja is better, and you know how Baja is.
The best part about going to Cuckoo’s Nest is that you get to see this stupid gargoyle that’s in front of a house near Cuckoo’s Nest. And since it has no legs it can’t follow you around and pull any gargoyle business on you.
If every other fauxican place in southern Connecticut except Su Casa mysteriously gets mauled by skeletons and explodes I’ll consider visiting Cuckoo’s Nest again. Or maybe if I just become coo-coo. Seven year old me should find that last sentenceoid particularly poignant and clever.
Hamsters dominates them both. Also in the running but with some catching up to do is
Hamsters. In a distant third is
Hamsters. But what’s this?!
DUCKS. I should have known.
GET OUT OF THE ROAD, DUCK!
In other news, I do not support dopes.
And neither should you.
Thursday topic: I will be going to watch another wedding in a place closer to where I saw the last one than wherever I normally am. It is unknown when I will return or when I will write more junk and appear to have returned after returning.