social media sucks ass.
for us super sensitive
sometimes i hate
so so so much
i feel like a stupid tool
everyone hates me
why do i do this
this is the third inking i have done today.
i am about to post it on facebook. in that stupid group i am in. and it will get zero “likes” as have the other two today.
my art doesn’t suck that bad.
why can’t i get a “like”….
and why do i care?
fuck a duck
i am ready to just quit facebook. a fucking social media site should not be able to cause me this kind of torment.
i know it’s stupid.
yet i am tormented.
i am going to keep doing inktober.
i am going to keep doing art.
i am going to keep practicing my ink brush painting (right now i am opening the book the photo ark to a random page and painting it.)
and! and–i am going to get back to my comics. my moses jones and all the others.
it’s been too long.
so fuck you, facebook. even if you hate my art. i love my art.
i love being an artist.
a nice fucking neurotic artist.
i just realized why i am feeling
so profoundly sad
i met two of my husbands
& one of my fiances
in septembers past…
september is either a very good
or very bad
month for me
and since my romantic value is so intertwined with my heart value…with my self value….
thanks a fucking lot culture that makes women worthless unless they are valued by a man.
don’t fuck me.
i am unfuckable.
just a baby vessel who is spent already and who draws stupid pictures anyway.
there is this song that comes on the radio that makes me want to run over the artist with my truck. james arthur’s “say you won’t let go.”
man, that song pisses me off. it’s like a man proving he’s mr. perfect, caring man…like there is such a thing.
i am just feeling very oh-so crappy about love & romance & relationships & i just kind of hate everybody right now (not you though.)
if good love exists, i have never actually seen it.
which just pisses me off.
like, what did i do?
did i crush puppies in a past life?
what lesson am i supposed to learn here?
i’m pretty useless these days.
i have produced some art, but i not-so-secretly fear it sucks.
i am a terrible mom.
i just want to crawl in a hole with a bottle of whiskey.
i’m pretty sure i have no friends
or else i’d be saying this to them
not torturing you with it.
and when strangers smile at me in public, i think they must be confused.
sorry if i have sung this song before.
sorry if you are tired of it.
i just feel like crap.
and i hate my art.
you know how your own voice
sounds so fucking weird
when you hear it recorded
and played back to you?
my art sometimes
hits my ear that way
i hear my speaking
and it is irritating
and i wish my voice were huskier
i want my art to sing to me
like tina turner
it is off tune and without soul
when i check out picture books for my kids–or look at graphic novels, i almost totally choose stories based on their illustrations.
you can see me in the library pull a book off of the shelf, open it up, blurt “ew!” and quickly re-shelf it with a wince.
so as i am making illustrations for my friend’s story, i keep wondering, would i choose this book?
except it’s difficult. like looking at your own face in the mirror and trying to figure out if you are pretty. what do other people see when they look at you because all you can see is that one eyebrow is higher than the other and your nose is asymmetrical.
so i don’t know if this is actually a finished page…or just one more step towards getting it almost right…
close enough that i’m not embarrassed by it, at least.
on a side note, i think my inner catholic is peeking out again as i try to illustrate this story.
update: i literally just started this inking, but i already like the sound of its voice better….
“i’m a good father!”
he tells me
& tells me
& tells me
and to paraphrase shakespeare,
i think the fellow doth protest too much.
who is he trying to convince?
and i say to him,
“but you are a crappy partner.”
and something eggs at me
until i realize
you can’t be a crappy partner
and a good father
you just can’t…
to be a good father
you have to be good
to their mother.
(i had a full post written…and i lost it. so now i’m pissed off & trying to remember what awesome things i had written….)
dusty came for the weekend because it was misha’s birthday and maybe–just maybe–i was trying to sabotage myself because i was feeling too happy…too healthy…too on top of my life….
was i trying to sabotage me?
well, if i was, it didn’t work! the day after he left i finished my application for the sustainable arts award for moms who are artists &/or writers. i got my shit together and even figured out how to make a pdf file of my pages of moses jones.
two days after he left, i finished all my rough drafts for “mistress of mud.”
of course, why he was here, i was sick to my stomach. literally. nauseated the entire time. so so sick.
my body does that.
if my brain won’t listen…my body goes on strike and some sort of illness manifests. so many boyfriends have resulted in flu symptoms.
meanwhile, dusty is telling me what a good dad he is and thinking that my passivity due to nausea means i am flirting with him?
we were having a good conversation one night. we went out and watched the moon rise and stars fall out of the sky. it was amazing & awesome and we were there together.
i was like, “okay, i’m going to bed” seeing as i am always up at sunrise and pretty much always sleep deprived.
and it was a light switch.
gone was nice dusty
& out came hostile dusty.
fuck that bullshit.
he thinks we are going to somehow someday have some fucking happily ever after? and if i don’t reciprocate, i get treated like garbage?
i don’t want to lead him on. i want to be honest with him that it is over and would take a miracle of biblical proportions for us to ever be a couple again…
but i am afraid of his reaction.
i feel stupid for it. silenced.
why can’t i be civil to him without him thinking that means he is going to get laid?
i want to be able to say, “no” without it turning into an attack on me.
fuck this bullshit.
i have woven
love & rejection
my earliest experiences with love
people become important to me
once they have
i focus on this rejection
i look for my worth
in the eyes
of people…of men
who reject me.
i feel anger that i am not
i let my anger become
who i am.
i am not my anger.
i am not that reflection
in the eyes
of people who cannot