Friday, January 23

Ancient methods.

I have, at long last, produced a flyer in the hopes of utilising ye olde flyering method of advertisement to get more tutoring jobs. Look upon my ridiculously simple photoshopping works ye mighty, and despair! (Actually, I drew most of it in non-photoblue pencil, inked it, scanned it, then photoshopped it, but that's besides the point.)

Actually, I'm concerned that perhaps it's not serious enough--I tried to make myself seem personable through my advertisement, not some faceless corporation. I wonder if that will help or hinder me. Ah well, I guess we'll see if I get any phone calls...

In the mean time, let me know what you think--leave me a comment.

Also, I have produced some other literary device comics since I last posted. Have a look! I think that this is the first time I've felt so creative in a while:

Friday, January 16

The Masked Offender rides again!

I made this comic. It's the first of a series I plan to do...a comic dictionary of literary terms that I'll try and use as a fundraiser for my trip with Jonna. Let me know if you like it! Yes, I know it needs work. It will be photoshopped, you can bet your sweet bonnet it will.

Monday, January 12

Time management is for superheroes.

<-- 1. I made a comic. 

       2. I am working on a short story.

       3. I am looking for a job.

       4. I should be doing number 3 more, but really, spend equal time on all of them.

        5. I play video games about ten times as much as 1, 2, or 3.

6. Sophie made a new (actual and in color) comic! You should check it out.

Wednesday, January 7

Sadness Soup.


I want badly to be well
maybe I rationalize my sadness by calling it a disease, thinking anyone could catch it, I'm just unlucky. Therefore, I wonder why me, and although I can't have sadness surgically removed from my body...sadness is not a thing. If it was, I could sell it.

I thought about death today. I don't think Jonna would have wanted to know I thought about it. I think I must be surrounded by it, and yet I don't feel it seeping into me, making me sad, making me wish I was more like what surrounds me, what enjoys itself, which is death and all its themes.

I don't wonder when I write, really. It's just an exploration of things to say. That's why when I read something I've written, I can't remember writing it, and I refuse to believe it was me that penned it. I think forgetfulness is my strong suit.

If the economy is depressed, why can't I be?


Lately I've been thinking a lot about what I want to do with my life. It seems like what I want to do doesn't exist.