I told you I wasn't dead.
Ello.
My brother James begged me to paint his flat. He made it sound like a five day job. Eight tops. Noooooo. I got here Friday 13th and have been working fulltilt ever since. I'm stuck here 'til the end of the month, maybe later.
Awake at 6am, up at 7am, working through 'til roughly 8pm and lending a hand feeding/entertaining sprogs and doing chores in any downtime I can scrounge. Bed at 1am (after I've tried to do art or write and mostly failed) then awake every two hours or so through the night panicking about art, rent, and the fact I'm on someone's sofa and have no personal space 'til 6am whereupon it all starts again.
I'm aware that lots of people (the ones with small sprogs or full-time jobs or both, especially) are used to this sort of thing. I'm not. Also the lugging furniture and the painting ceilings with a roller for hours on end isn't doing kind things to my wrist. And I have NeuronNiece's ick-cold-ill. And I did six pictures in one day for my other brother who needed them for a pitch. (They all included lots of random normal people, buildings, streets, cars, locations, and all that other shit I hate drawing.)
In short, whilst (thanks to my regained-brain-equilibrium and James' hospitality) I'm not having a bad time, I am having an extremely busy and exhausting time.
My neurons feel righteously heroic. Which tells you just how pathetic and useless they normally are.
In an attempt to make up for all these trials visited so cruelly upon me, James has given my his old 1st gen iphone - which I have made mine and called CheeseApple. (Will pass on number when I'm sure it's working and has credit etc.) And Bastie has given me some money which means I have most of this month's rent. Go me!
I'm not dead (yet), I'm around, but I'm generally invisible, rushed and haphazard.
Try not to die, explode, melt, rupture, drown, go insane, lose limbs, get electrocuted, committed, murdered or sucked into a cult/pyramid scheme in my absence my darlings. I have great faith you can manage.
Love and paint fumes,
Corvid
xx
My brother James begged me to paint his flat. He made it sound like a five day job. Eight tops. Noooooo. I got here Friday 13th and have been working fulltilt ever since. I'm stuck here 'til the end of the month, maybe later.
Awake at 6am, up at 7am, working through 'til roughly 8pm and lending a hand feeding/entertaining sprogs and doing chores in any downtime I can scrounge. Bed at 1am (after I've tried to do art or write and mostly failed) then awake every two hours or so through the night panicking about art, rent, and the fact I'm on someone's sofa and have no personal space 'til 6am whereupon it all starts again.
I'm aware that lots of people (the ones with small sprogs or full-time jobs or both, especially) are used to this sort of thing. I'm not. Also the lugging furniture and the painting ceilings with a roller for hours on end isn't doing kind things to my wrist. And I have NeuronNiece's ick-cold-ill. And I did six pictures in one day for my other brother who needed them for a pitch. (They all included lots of random normal people, buildings, streets, cars, locations, and all that other shit I hate drawing.)
In short, whilst (thanks to my regained-brain-equilibrium and James' hospitality) I'm not having a bad time, I am having an extremely busy and exhausting time.
My neurons feel righteously heroic. Which tells you just how pathetic and useless they normally are.
In an attempt to make up for all these trials visited so cruelly upon me, James has given my his old 1st gen iphone - which I have made mine and called CheeseApple. (Will pass on number when I'm sure it's working and has credit etc.) And Bastie has given me some money which means I have most of this month's rent. Go me!
I'm not dead (yet), I'm around, but I'm generally invisible, rushed and haphazard.
Try not to die, explode, melt, rupture, drown, go insane, lose limbs, get electrocuted, committed, murdered or sucked into a cult/pyramid scheme in my absence my darlings. I have great faith you can manage.
Love and paint fumes,
Corvid
xx