learning how to draw

So, I've been learning how to draw.

I've always wanted to know how to express myself in other mediums, and drawing has always been something elusive for me. It seemed unobtainable, but then I took a couple of drawing classes, and I can see the things now. Shadows and shapes and shit like that.

I'm still terrible, but here's some stuff that I've done so far;

i will be 30 soon

I can't help but feel that I've wasted my twenties.

I'm still working on the same Bachelor's degree that I was when I turned 20. I've cycled myself through four prior collegiate institutions by my own failures or the fuckery of circumstance.

However - I got my first 4.0 grades last year, and they keep coming. I think I have finally figured this shit out - but the irony - my Pell Grant runs out a little over a year from now, and I've got more than that to go.

I finished the first draft of my novel - but it's the same damn novel that I started in my early twenties.

If I'd been born rich, if I'd been more successful in my business ventures as a kid - I'd have finished the thing six years ago. I'd be on my eighth novel by now, and I'd have mastered the craft.

I never got to sleep with someone in their twenties while I was still in my twenties, and that's probably my biggest regret. Do not confuse the issue - I've WANTED to get laid the whole time, but that's the problem with being a virgin - you don't have a choice in it. Being a nice guy sometimes means you don't get laid by the girls you want.

There aren't as many one night stand stories about people in their thirties as there are about people in their twenties.

I think I might have to save up for a professional, doesn't seem like much else I can do about this problem right now - if I want to get laid, I probably have to pay for it. I have no problem with that, but there again is the problem with being of lower income - a decent pro will cost me three months salary.

And I'm still fat - but I made a promise to myself - I will not be fat when I get to thirty. NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. And when I get fit again, maybe it will let me feel better about not wanting to sleep with any fat chicks.

I have no problem at all admitting that I'm loathed by fat chicks. Fat people generally, I'm in Bill Maher's camp. It's your own damn fault, just as it's my own damn fault for being fat.

I've wasted half of my twenties being fat. I don't want to be fat anymore.

And most of my teeth are gone now. My enamel is completely gone, and it's only a matter of time until every single original tooth in my mouth is gone, and I'll have to reenlist just to get all the new ones back. Or become a successful Hollywood actor and pay for a new set.


I'm almost thirty. Fuck.

the gods might be dead


Here is my introduction to the world of this new fact of my nature.

I'm an atheist, and I probably have been for a lot longer than I might have even known. I don't believe in God anymore.

It certainly isn't for a lack of morality that I became an atheist, in fact I think of myself as probably more of a moral man now than I was back when I had somebody to blame for all of the ills and problems of the world.

Through my understanding of evolutionary biology to its knowable extent, I've come to this factoid:
    that the fundamental laws of the universe are far more chaotic and weird than can ever have been "created" by a creator.

There is no God. Those are weird words for me to say. Those are weird words for me to write. To admit to myself in this strange fucking cosmos. God is an invention like the steam engine and number two colored pencils.

Or I should say rather that I am just simply not convinced in the story of God that has been handed down to us through the generations, translated and transliterated ill well by fucktards in Tudor robes and pointy hats. Because it's a story. It's just a fucking story.

Like the novels that I write, somebody created a beginning and a middle and an end and the end will never fucking happen like it's written in that fucking story because it is a fucking story. A story. Not even a good one. The morality is all fucked up, the story of the Bible wouldn't even work on a soap opera, all of them fucking people - nomad kings in the fucking desert imagining burning bushes and building giant arcs? Ugh, lame.

Half of the bible stories should begin with the words; "This person consumed vast quantities of psychedelics, and then God spoke to them."

Because the story of the Bible is about as believable as the story of somebody who just got down off of an acid trip. Lizards climbing the walls and donkeys sprouting horns and breathing fire. You don't go to another dimension on Ayahuasca, and an angel did not have sex with a virgin, and there is no such thing as a four-headed lamb.

Have I been PWNED?

 Simple answer: yes.

Longer answer: every couple of weeks my information gets sold on the black market. YES I AM AWARE OF THIS.

What can I do to fight this? I change my passwords periodically and I take my computer into the store to get checked for malware, but that's about it. Java and Python and whatever... I don't know that stuff.

I'm a normal person. I'm a normal person in a normal world - I know I'm being fucked over, but I'm normal, so I don't have the tools to fuck back.

So, this will be my next language - the language of telling black hats to go fuck themselves.

I bought an Ink Quill

 I've been thinking about the Quill game for a long time, so I finally bought one. Here's my first ever quill shiz:

an author's note

Pretend you’re reading a book right now.

If my editors are the crack shots that I have been led to believe they are, and of which I think they think they are, and if my publishers care more about the quality of the content rather than the profitability of an unknown author – they would’ve had the decent sense to put some maps of the world somewhere in the book that you are now holding in your hands.

Hopefully these maps are near the front of the book, or the back of the book.

As long as they’re not in the middle of the book. That just sort of tends to ruin the feel of the book as you rub your fingers along the edge of its pages, or better yet, open it up and flip through it to feel the course of gushing wind upon your face emanating from within the dark world deep inside it covers.

With most books, these simple actions to me are enticingly erotic, make my nipples tingle, my dick get hard, and goosebumps form underneath the jungle of hair on my lower arms.

There is nothing quite like the thrill that comes from taking my thumb, setting it on the upper right-hand corner of a book, and listening to the torrent of pages rub against one another under the strobe lights of the freakish night club that is called Literaria.

Putting inserts in the middle of a book is basically the literary publisher’s version of cockblocking.

I’d be damned surprised if they didn’t realize what they were doing on some sort of subconscious level.

Come to think of it, if my editors and publishers, or agents, or estate managers, or future robot overlords – all hail – have decided to put anything in the middle of this book that does not belong there, I want you to catch them unawares and throw this book at them.

Put a little gash in their forehead.

After this, when you have inflicted a considerable amount of damage to the left hemisphere of their brain – which is responsible for putting inserts in the middle of books – and the suspect in question is hemorrhaging from the gash in his or her forehead, I would like you to shout top of your lungs:

“Take that you miserable git! That’s what you get for putting inserts in the middle of a book, you inconsiderate paper-pushing uber-Christian pathetic waste of precious oxygen! Random House must have doorhandles, yeah? Why don’t you take those random doorhandles in that random house and shove them up your ass‽”

That should put them in their place.