I’m testing a hypothesis. Even if it doesn’t work out, I will have no regrets.
I’ve been super-busy lately, y’all. I’ve been making my own coloring book pages, then printing them out, drawing and painting all over them with my left hand, then going over more details in ink. Because, uh, who needs time?
Listen, society. I think we need to have a chat — a fireside chat — about the first rule of home-buying.
So take a sit and listen very carefully when I say:
If your dog refuses to enter your new home, it is, without question, haunted. Burn it down and move somewhere else.
Hubs and I saw The Conjuring last night — a great movie to see if you’re backed up, because it will scare the crap out of you.
Except for the last half hour or so, because, ugh, it gets stupid.
(The following contains spoilers).
The twist/reveal of the movie is that the house is haunted by a the ghost of a Satanic witch who possesses women to kill their children.
Because Satan said so, and stuff.
There’s nothing that throws me out of a movie faster than Lucifer turning out to be the villain.
I’m not sure there have ever been a lot of people who literally worshiped Satan. How many actual Demonolators/theistic Satanists are there? Not many. And they’re not very powerful. The most recent “Satanist”-related item in the news was the gay wedding they held over the Westboro Baptist Church founder’s mom’s gravesite. From their title to their actions, Satanists are basically just teenagers trolling for attention.
I can’t take any of that seriously.
The end of The Conjuring devolves into an exorcism cliché: vomiting, floating, hands-on-the-forehead, etc. Come back to the light, etc.
The instant one restricts oneself to a specific type of evil, they’re confined to a specific type of solution to that evil. Now, I realize that this movie is “based on a true story” (ugh), so I guess being irritable about its plot doesn’t make a lot of sense.
I’m still holding out for original horror stories. I’ve seen them before, and I’ll see them again. This just isn’t one of them.
A few days ago, I grabbed the townhouse’s laundry and Fuzz-Butt (our dog) (not his real name) and went over to the house.
I put the dog in the washer and the laundry in the back yard.
When the laundry didn’t romp or chase squirrels, I realized the error of my ways.
My husband must have been delighted to receive this text:
“I’ve kidnapped your dog and your underwear!”
His follow-up questions were:
“Did you just take the underwear? I had other laundry, too.”
“Do you know how to use the new laundry machine? Does it take some kind of special detergent or anything?”
“Oh no! I didn’t read the instructions! I just put ANY OLD THING in the detergent drawer! Also, the house is on fire, and the dog has escaped into the woods.”
As you can see from the illustration above, that is, of course, not the case. Because I am the Queen of Laundry Day.
I knew to buy special HE detergent for the new washer because, duh, I am not going to throw several hundred dollars at an appliance just to have it explode because I couldn’t be bothered to skim a pamphlet.
You may notice that my self-portrait is a little different.
It’s because I got a very trendy haircut:
I’d like you to know that I almost didn’t post this photo because my face looked fat in it.
But then I remembered that I have a massive cranium in all photos. Because I have a massive cranium, period.
People seem pretty psyched about the hair. Or they’re just being nice. I’m not sure; and honestly, I’m so busy basking in compliments that I don’t care.
Notes about other drawings:
Manila drawing: My husband exists for puns.
Upon researching Manila, I stumbled across the site for Star City, Manila’s bomb-as-hell theme park. Congratulations, Star City: you’re now on my bucket list. Sadly, Manila’s real sports teams have more disappointing names — with the exception of the Beermen. I don’t know if this means something else in the Philippines. I hope it refers to men who drink (or are composed of) beer.
Sometimes your kid starts dating a black hole; this sort of thing often happens. A lady sometimes has to kiss quite a few frogs before finding a prince.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my prince’s underwear needs laundering.
This needed to be reblogged: these tattoos look just like collages. So cool.
French artist Xoil has a characteristic tattooing style that looks like he has stamped, stenciled, or drawn directly with a felt-tip pen on his clients’ bodies.
Depicted is of the greenest outfit of all time. This Napoleon-inspired outfit features:
- A hat garden. For vegan food on the go.
- A bird house. Even if your peers don’t understand you, your bird will.
- Solar power shoulder pads. To charge the ol’ iPhone.
- A succulent garden on the chest. Succulents are well-known for being able to thrive anywhere.
- Ray-Ban aviators at the hip. Because obviously.
- A bicycle that is made out of recycled chia pet heads. Or whatever.
When I drew this, I was all “LOL/ROTFL LOOK AT THAT HIPSTER” but I now actually want this outfit.
Here’s a detail of His Highness:
I can dig it. Now, if you’ll excuse Napoleon and I, we’re going to the Greenlight Bookstore in Fort Greene and to read some Sedaris or Franzen or something.
TOP: I was thinking about putting something in the bubble about, like, obsessive-compulsive disorder, (Monk! get it?) but it felt played before my fingertips even touched the keyboard. So I kind of hate myself. But here’s Monk Mike. His chin is super-duper fun.
BOTTOM: This military dictator has no bestie. A bestie-less universe is not a universe you want to inhabit, friends. You’re better off being in the proletariat.
Speaking of imperfect universes, check out my wounds, yo. I wrecked myself hiking on Saturday. It was muddy, buggy, and rocky. I fell down.
On our way out of the trail, we convinced an older couple to — for the love of God — turn around and go back to civilization. They looked at our sweaty, dirty, tear-streaked faces, and agreed. (Okay, well, not tear-streaked. But seriously. It was the worst hike of all time.)
I thought about illustrating the saga, but I don’t want to spend that much time revisiting it. It’s not my legs that hurt the most — it’s my spirit.
I wonder if it’s possible to raise a child in such a macabre setting that they become completely fearless. Like, if you watched horror movies all the time and had taxidermy everywhere.
Or maybe — just maybe — you were a medical doctor who described autopsies and/or ER mishaps over the dinner table constantly, like my parents did.
“You can’t gross me out,” I reassure people when they start to talk about their periods, or wounds, or their infants’ defecation. “Seriously.”
I can watch Nip/Tuck like a champ, but horror movies still scare me.
I want a child made of pure steel. A kid that knows their way around the human body and isn’t scared of monsters or ghouls, either. A ferocious warrior-child.
Alas, Child Services would take my progeny away and have them raised like every other wussy kid out there.
So forget it: reproduction is off the table. If I can’t have a badass, I will forgo the process altogether.