Coherent, tightly written life. Storyboards, please.
and that is the second time - the SECOND time tonight, friends - that I have gotten jalapeno in my eye.
"I can make pico de gallo," I said to myself in the grocery store the other day, which is NOT true, because "pico de gallo" are not words tat the average white person can even say, much less construct, in a physical fashion, into food.
You cant really buy good pico here, much like you can't really buy a decent tortilla, or a vehicle that seats a thousand full grown adults and an alpacan mule. Thus then that it was that I impulsively bought some tomatoes, an onion, a few jalepenos and a butt-ton of fresh cilantro.
"boom," crackled the authentic Mister Warning Alarm, an indication that the grocery store vegitable ailse is about to be visited upon by "rain," or, "water spigots on an automated timer," to keep them "fresh" and "crisp". I am not sure why it actually emulates the sound of thunder. Am I to assume that they wish me to feel transpored to a tropical domain where aparagus, peeled baby carrots and turnips all abound on the trees, and all on the same tree, as a matter of fact?
You know what has just occured to me? (What has just occured to you, Melissa, though I already know, for I, the MacBook, can read your thoughts as well as make polite conversation.) This apartment would be bumfucked in the case of zombie attack. i gots me some serious all-around windows in here, floor to ceiling, and the halfassed decorative but useless blinds that came with the place aren't even opaque. You can watch my apartment like its TV at night. Zombies would not eat us first just because we're such easy damn targets, in case things ever get rough and they need a quick bite to eat in a pinch. Shit. Its all thundering outside and I'm alone in the apt right now anyway, and I'm half sure some crazy zombie, or crazy hobo, or crazy hobo zombie bout to be crashin all through my apt window right now.
I've been trying to write all night. Looks successful, right? WRONG. i've been trying to write stories. You know what? Fuck stories. They're all the same. Beginning middle end bah. Somehow, writing a spontaneous story for comics a certain page length, but with no actual help towards topic, is effing hard, and this is what I must do. Somehow, no idea I have fits the incredibly broad critera I have been given, which is to script a comic which would be 20-30 pages in length. I don't even have to draw it, and I think that's the problem. I don't really want to write things. I want to draw things, but somehow all the classes I have right now want me to write.
Thus, all eve, I have practiced drawing things, which is good but nothing specific for class, and have done no reading, writing or sketching toward actually staying a grad student. School based on me having a perpetual spring of creativity is HARD. Then I forget to do important things because CREATIVE brains FORGET things like food and where to poop.
Ha ha ha, no, I just wanted to say poop.
Frustrating!!! But I made some great character models off of people I know. Now if only I had a coherent, tightly written and amusing anecdote to weave about them which would be about thirty illustrated pages long...
Effing A, I have to drive to Darlington, or somewhere, tomorrow.
"I can make pico de gallo," I said to myself in the grocery store the other day, which is NOT true, because "pico de gallo" are not words tat the average white person can even say, much less construct, in a physical fashion, into food.
You cant really buy good pico here, much like you can't really buy a decent tortilla, or a vehicle that seats a thousand full grown adults and an alpacan mule. Thus then that it was that I impulsively bought some tomatoes, an onion, a few jalepenos and a butt-ton of fresh cilantro.
"boom," crackled the authentic Mister Warning Alarm, an indication that the grocery store vegitable ailse is about to be visited upon by "rain," or, "water spigots on an automated timer," to keep them "fresh" and "crisp". I am not sure why it actually emulates the sound of thunder. Am I to assume that they wish me to feel transpored to a tropical domain where aparagus, peeled baby carrots and turnips all abound on the trees, and all on the same tree, as a matter of fact?
You know what has just occured to me? (What has just occured to you, Melissa, though I already know, for I, the MacBook, can read your thoughts as well as make polite conversation.) This apartment would be bumfucked in the case of zombie attack. i gots me some serious all-around windows in here, floor to ceiling, and the halfassed decorative but useless blinds that came with the place aren't even opaque. You can watch my apartment like its TV at night. Zombies would not eat us first just because we're such easy damn targets, in case things ever get rough and they need a quick bite to eat in a pinch. Shit. Its all thundering outside and I'm alone in the apt right now anyway, and I'm half sure some crazy zombie, or crazy hobo, or crazy hobo zombie bout to be crashin all through my apt window right now.
I've been trying to write all night. Looks successful, right? WRONG. i've been trying to write stories. You know what? Fuck stories. They're all the same. Beginning middle end bah. Somehow, writing a spontaneous story for comics a certain page length, but with no actual help towards topic, is effing hard, and this is what I must do. Somehow, no idea I have fits the incredibly broad critera I have been given, which is to script a comic which would be 20-30 pages in length. I don't even have to draw it, and I think that's the problem. I don't really want to write things. I want to draw things, but somehow all the classes I have right now want me to write.
Thus, all eve, I have practiced drawing things, which is good but nothing specific for class, and have done no reading, writing or sketching toward actually staying a grad student. School based on me having a perpetual spring of creativity is HARD. Then I forget to do important things because CREATIVE brains FORGET things like food and where to poop.
Ha ha ha, no, I just wanted to say poop.
Frustrating!!! But I made some great character models off of people I know. Now if only I had a coherent, tightly written and amusing anecdote to weave about them which would be about thirty illustrated pages long...
Effing A, I have to drive to Darlington, or somewhere, tomorrow.