EVERYTHING I DRAW IS AWESOME.

WHATEVER. WHAT THE HELL. ANYWAY.

Not a damn thing happened today.

 

The internet on Mulholland Drive:

This is something random.

"memento was easy and very nice to watch this one sucked, i didn`t understand any of it untill i read the explenation and then it still sucked big time"

Zak Smith Thing

This is my homage/tribute/rip-off/fan art of Zak Smith. He's pretty neat.

Warning for Christians and children who visit that site, there's lots of sex, boobs, and vaginas!

It's ok. The drawing I mean. My professor in college told me to take a look at him and I liked him back then too, but I never really tried to adapt any of his techniques to my style, though I could kind of see why he saw similarities between us. Of course, Zak is way better than I am, but you already knew that.

Naturally he draws interesting portraits of interesting people based on real life and I draw... a wizard... thing.

Sigh. 


 

Kate Moss

Something like that.

Back in high school, I was browsing the photo magazines in the art room, and I found a photo of this bad ass looking chick with rad hair, so I cut it out and had it on the front of my math binder for a year. Apparently it was Kate Moss. Or maybe it wasn't. But my sister -- who is way cooler than you are -- said it was. I don't know, but that probably means I'm a fan or something.

I guess Kate got a lot of flak for being skinny. I don't think that was very nice.

Those are my deep thoughts on the issue.



Audrey Hepburn was pretty skinny too, you know!

A thing.

Drew a thing.

Saturday Market

Eric Winters felt a searing pain in his hip as he went down to pick-up the ten pound tub of corn. It was difficult to lift things nowadays due to his decaying joints, but he did it anyway, as if anyone else would bother to do it. Of course they wouldn't! They were lazy and did not care for his farm, at least not in the way he did. His grandfather, a bitter angry man had told him as he lay dying: "Take care of the farm you stupid idiot! Without it, you are nothing!"

And so he did work, tirelessly, endlessly, day in day out, just himself and the farm, and, of course, the legions of idiots he employed who cared nothing for the farm's success. Even his own son, Elliot, cared little for the farm. All Elliot cared about was video games and women! Probably. It was hard to say what that idiot was interested in, they talked so rarely and when they did talk it was only in terms of what needed to be done next on the farm or to yell at each other. If only his son could understand what truly mattered in life! Hard work and money, of course, for without those, you are nothing. Nothing!

Suddenly he heard a small voice over his left shoulder. It was his wife, Rita. Rita was a polite woman who spoke softly and treated people with respect, and, by his estimations, was a total imbecile. It was hard for him to remember most of the time why he had married her. To have a son to keep the farm running, he supposed, but beyond that, her importance was minimal to him.

Oh, dinners, she was good at making him dinners. He never could figure out the whole cooking thing. Not that he had any time to, what with all the working he did!

He found her so irritating nowadays, she worked so little, or at least as far as he could tell. He did not actually know what she did for a living, but he knew it wasn't farm work -- the most important work known to man! After all, as his father had always said, what is to happen to us without farms? We should starve, and no one wants to starve. Though he wished those damn liberal pussies in North Portland would starve. The type that lived off the government day in and day out with no ambition or desire to work every waking hour of their lives.

He set down the tub of corn and glared over at one his employees who, in fact, was from North Portland, a tall spindly, terribly ugly man (in his opinion) who never worked as hard as he wanted him to. A real hemorrhoid -- a term he had come up with himself and enjoyed using whenever he had the chance. A pain in the ass! Often he would say it out-loud and let everyone know just how clever, and more importantly, bitter he was.

The tall kid from North Portland, who went by the name of Tyrone, was currently writing signs for the market. He stooped over the table where he wrote the signs and he seemed to be writing a bit too slow, as though he didn't care enough. As though he could not comprehend just how much this farm meant to him.

Everything, essentially.

"Hey, get those signs done! I'm not paying you for nothing you dimwit!"

Tyrone, who never showed him any respect for some reason, answered back with a sneer in his voice that could only be brought on by too many years of liberal education, self-delusion, lack of reality, and book-reading, "What does it look like I"m doing!?"

"You're probably screwing up those prices just like you do every week! And just like you do at that Thursday market where everyone runs around like rabbits with their head cut off!"

Tyrone didn't reply, he just kept writing those signs, way too slowly. Typical work ethic from someone with an art degree. Art? What the hell is that worth? Nothing! Absolutely nothing! Could you feed an entire army on art?

Nope.

Alas, there was hope at the end of the tunnel, for soon he would die and he could stop working, but not after having established his legacy of working.

They annoy me those who employ me
They could destroy me
They should enjoy me

Laura

Welp.

So I was all like talking to my friend the other day and he was all, "How come you don't draw anymore?" so then I was all like, "Naw man, I'm just writing now," and then he all went like, "But, you're so bad at it..." And stuff.

Yeup.

Feels good, man.