it's a funeral home get it

Fun Home is pretty cool. I like it, at least. My roommates would probably like it too, they're lesbians. I don't know. Maybe that's derogatory. Fuck 'em.

Following Pat's criteria for an indie comic, there are breasts. Now I'm wondering if there will ever be an indie comic without breasts. There's probably something I don't know about.

I mean, even the story about the gay guy during the civil rights movement had breasts in it.

Jesus.

Stuck Rubber Crappy

Seriously? That was a novel? That was boring. It was dull and uneventful. It was like reading fucking Dickens. You're writing a story set in the South during the Civil Rights era, with a closeted homosexual protagonist, and you manage to make it this fucking dull?

Why am I not published? Is this what I have to do? Churn out 200 pages of non-events?

Anyway, I finished writing Sven Fjorden. He's pretty awesome. There may or may not be bear headshots and axe decapitations.

Facial Structure

Every character in Stuck Rubber
Baby looks like this guy.

I like the story, I guess. It's a little slow moving but it has its moments and nothing about the writing has really rubbed me the wrong way.

But seriously, why does everyone have a giant chin that stretches all the way to their eyeballs? It's hard for me to distinguish between characters because everyone's face is nearly identical. If it weren't for hair and the occasional shading work, I'd have no idea what was going on.

Not that it's necessarily lazy to draw the same face a lot; lazy would be copy-pasting characters into every panel and only changing the dialogue (which plenty of comic strips seem to be doing these days). It just makes it tougher to commit to the story when I'm being forced to cross-check with previous chapters to make sure someone in a room is the same person I think they are.

edit: and I swear to God, if you say "IT JUST SHOWS THAT WE'RE ALL THE SAME PERSON, WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT" I will punch you in your throat

This is what I've been doing while I'm sick. Fighting crime as my favorite modernist author.

What's the deal with portraits from life? Does this guy know he sucks? It doesn't take a lot to entertain me, but man. What the hell.

On the plus side, my stomach is no longer trying to eat the rest of my body, so I can come to class now. Wooo.

The Worst Nights of Your Life

For as far back as I can consciously remember, which is like, age four, I've thrown up maybe six times. That's not definite, but there's no way in hell it's more than ten, and six sounds just about right. It's not that I don't get sick, it's just that I never throw up - my body has failed me in hundreds of different ways, but that's one problem I've never had.

Which means every time I throw up, I forget how horrible and disgusting and terrible it is. I completely forget, I live four years of my life, and then things like last night happen, and I'm kneeling in front of the toilet for ten minutes.

Then, I try to sit cross-legged to regain some composure, and my right leg immediately goes into Charlie Horse mode. So I've been throwing up for ten minutes and now I'm writing in agony on the bathroom floor, punching my leg.

Jesus christ.