Me at 1155: I should probably start cooking something for Thanksgiving.
Me at 1200: I haven't made this sauce recipe in a while. And the last time I made it, I changed the recipe and really liked it. There was some sort of secret ingredient. Oh, well. Every other time I've made it, it's come out awesome.
Me at 1215: I don't have the core ingredient that makes this sauce. I shall have to improvise.
Me at 1217: WAIT! This happened last time, and I replaced (ingredient) with (variation on ingredient). And I DO have that ingredient.
I make the recipe. Taste. Flavor. Taste. Flavor. Edit. Taste.
Me at 1225: THIS IS MY SAUCE NOW. I WILL DRINK IT LIKE SOUP.
Me at 1230: Well, I'll pour some of it into mason jars, but I am definitely going to throw this bacon and cheese ravioli in the remainder of the sauce, and skip Thanksgiving entirely.
Me at 1235: I'm never going to finish all this sauce. I guess I'll go.
If you're going to be out in public, or in, say a comic book store, or a restaurant, SMOKE BETTER WEED. I support your form of relaxation, but I don't want to have to smell your form of relaxation. If I did, I'd hang out with the dealer who is clearly ripping you off.
It's 2017. For every loss of civil liberties, and every disappointing political situation, there are at least two strains of affordable weed that don't smell like you just pulled your rolling papers out of a nervous skunk's asshole.
Or buy edibles. Anything that prevents me from having to Febreeze the store for an hour.
One of the guys across the hall just saw me reading an article online, and commented about how beautiful the photograph was, and how he likes to travel. So he started me asking questions about the place I was "looking to vacation."
I didn't lie. But I wonder what sort of noise he'll make when he tries to look up Hyrule on TripAdvisor.
Once I start whistling the original Super Mario Brothers Theme, the only was I can stop is to kill Mario or do the "time ran out" part. If I let him reach the flagpole in 1-1, I have no choice but to move on to the dungeon theme from 1-2.
Today, for the first time in ages, I sat down and spent two hours reading the news.
Tomorrow, I will go back to reading Stephen King and graphic novels, which are so much less depressing, and whose characters are less depraved, and do more realistic and human things.
When I am feeling down about my art, and where I am in my life, I do something that I've never heard recommended. I go find an artist whose work is in the same vein as mine. Someone who is more successful than me, but whose work I despise.
I read as much of their work as I can stand, and then I close the browser window, or the book, or whatever media brought their work to my eyes or ears, and I think "This talentless bozo wakes up every day and decides not only to live, but to keep producing their horrible art and inflict it in on the world. And people are giving them money for it. And this artist is, if not happy, at least content to keep breathing every day, despite all the hexes that right thinking people have put on them. And if this dingleberry gets to continue to live and produce this art that I hate, then there must be a place for me and my work."
Then I go make food, or watch TV, or something that makes me forget their terrible art.
I never do this BEFORE sitting down to create work, I only do it after I get frustrated by work, and I always give myself time to completely forget about before returning to create.
Regular Customer: Could I grab a plastic bag? My app says there's 100% chance of rain on my way home.
Me: 100%? That would mean it's raining now.
Looks out window.
RC: My app is my eyes.
Two Flat Capped Sullys came in to tell me that they've never read "comical books" before, but that we couldn't be one of the oldest "comical book stores" because DC opened the first comic book store back in World War II. They are pretty sure there was a DC store at the end of their street. In South Boston. But they never went in it because, SHOCKINGLY, neither of them read very much.
They referred to Saga as a "High End Japanese book." (It is a perfectly affordable book by two North Americans: An American and a Canadian.)
They walked around for about fifteen minutes, not even really picking anything up, but asking the usual Get The Fuck Out Of the Store Questions:
"What's your most expensive comic?"
"Is this your store? No? Do you read comics, then?"
"What kind of people buy comics?" "But they started when they were kiddies, right?" "Adults? Get Out Of Here. Adults read this crap?"
I hope some of Whitey Bulger's retired friends run over their fat, hairy, toes before the end of the week.
Like many of you, I suspect, every day my spam folder is filled with e-mails from fake estate lawyers and such, letting me know that if I give them some sort of information that they would totally not use for nefarious purposes, they can get me money from a dead relative that I totally never knew existed.
I only comment on it today because the e-mail started with "You are the next of kin for the recently deceased Terrance Jizzhound."
Bra-vo. Looks like I have the protagonist's name for my next fagsploitation novel.
Random Loiterer #1: "It's really cool that there a lot of trans comics now."
Random Loiterer #2: "Yea. Have you read Alters yet?"
RL #1: "No, but I found thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis one."
They dangle a copy of a back issue in front of RL #2.
RL #2: "That's about Transylvania, weirdo."
RL #1: laughs maniacally.