Showing posts with label DOOM. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DOOM. Show all posts

Thursday

Dissertation Defense is NIGH

I did these when I was about to defend my dissertation. It sums up quite nicely how I felt at the time. 






Aaaand squish.
The end.

Dear Cat,
I'm pretty sure that you can read because sometimes when I get home, all my books have been moved.

I'm even fairly certain you know my computer passcode, so I'll just leave my laptop open tomorrow and hope that you get this.


Just one request. It's quick. Please don't kill me.

This is a rough sketch of a bed (and no I don't know why it's gray right now, blogger is messing with me and I don't want to draw it again):


I am so freaking talented, omg.

I am using it to represent my bed, in fact. I know you know about my bed because you find me in it every night. 


oh hai! 

The problem is that you seem to think that nighttime is a good time to effectively marathon-style run your ass all over the bed, and me, and Cptn Awesomepants, and me again, and him again, and me one more time before taking a breather, because boy that shit is probably tiring. 

Bounce, bounce, bounce. Pause, lick something, lick something really relentlessly hard in a creepy way, bounce, knead, breathe on something, pause, place COLD WET nose on something that was previously asleep, bounce, run away from the devil that has clearly just found you.
Repeat. 

Because 3am. It's when the magic happens. 




I'm just putting in a request for you to, you know, slow it down a bit. Maybe even take a few nights or months off. 

I left instructions by the television in case you get bored. Also, I preloaded Kiki's Delivery Service because you liked that one. 

Hugs, 
Your Owner (I'm the blonde one, that puts your poo in plastic bags. It's because I love you.) 






Tuesday

This Post Is Not About My Dog. Mostly.

I am bad at sleeping. Terrible, even. If there was a 'sleep test,' I'd totally fail, though I'm sure I'd get some points for really inventive sleeping positions and my incredible thrashing technique. I've never been a good sleeper because I love early mornings (quiet, no one around to ask questions, THE COFFEE IS ALL MINE) and for whatever reason my particular physical chemistry makes it nigh on impossible to sleep for 8 hours straight (apparently the BBC thinks this is normal, which is nice, but the article linked does not address the issue of the mind blowing boredom one experiences at 3:30 am. It's times like those I really wish I smoked cigarettes because then I'd have something to do).

Anyway, I've always managed to be mostly functional on my average 6 to 7 hours of sleep a night. Mostly. I will never be a rocket scientist, and I'm alright with that, and I'll probably never be entirely emotionally sane, and I'm alright with that too. Moodiness tinged with irrationality makes for better art.

But the dog. Oh My God The Dog. We have a tiny, furzy, snarfling, adorable, sleep terrorist. She is evil, methodical, and unstoppable. I have slept *exactly* two full nights since we got her, approximately 900 years ago.


This, however, is not another post about my dog, but about what happens when I get woken up every three hours for about a week straight.

This is me with sleep:



*Drawn just slightly off scale. I don't know why I'm listing like a sailboat in a strong wind, either. Whatever. Maybe I'm flying. 


This is me without sleep:


*As you can see, I'm a motherfucking bear. A confused bear with extra claws, and random back spikes. Also, not pictured is that I breathe fire. 




Bears are not very functional. Bears are often confused by things like running water, clothing, gravity, light switches, and door frames. Bears do not get homework done. Bears play video games for entire afternoons and eat large amounts of chocolate-whatever-is-in-the-kitchen while whining about how everything is mean and hateful and doomy. And bears pick fights. Stupid fights, during which they can make a lot of noise (but very little sense). RARRRRRR, BLARRRGH. I think I've made my point. 

Not that I'm describing my morning, or anything. 



I need a nap. 










Saturday

Does Posting About Food Count?*

Yet another picture of something I really want to be eating right now: 


Fresh pasta, guianciale (pork jowl, don't worry-- it was a happy pig before it died), fresh fava beans & asparagus, and parmesan. Cooked (this is the best part!!!) NOT BY ME**. omg omg omg so good.

*Probably not. Oh well.

**(Adam, move to Montana. Seriously. Do you have any idea what I'm cooking for dinner tonight? You don't want to know. It involves boiling water and nothing else. Cpt Awesomepants shall despair. Woe. Woe is me.)

:(




The Idea of New Years Eve Often Differs From the Reality


New Years is such a lovely idea. 

One often assumes that it will look something like this: 

We are sophisticated and shiny and we are having a sophisticated shiny conversation about shiny worldly things!!! Yay New Years Eve!!

But I bartended for too many years and I know better.

See, New Years is amateur night. Like St. Patrick's Day (where, if you're lucky, you too can see green puke on the sidewalk!!), or July 4th, or any other holiday where folks get out to get nasty with this idea that because this night is a holiday, it's special, and thus it's fine to act akin to a yeti just flown in from the deep Canadian outback. It's the FuckItAll feeling coupled with a profound need to do something really, really epic on the last night of the year. And it gets to everyone.

It is almost always impossible to reach this goal, however, and in the festering wake of anticlimax, usually everyone just gets Ham.Mered. 

This does not, generally speaking, end well.

And New Years does not, generally speaking, end the way it started: as a shiny dream that borders on delusion, which is really how I start every weekend, but with New Years the fall from grace is just that much higher.

This is usually closer to reality:


Even if you are a seasoned bar veteran, going out on New Years is asking for trouble. 

It's quite likely you'll end up on the wrong side of midnight with barf in your hair and only one shoe.  It's also quite likely that you will hear a stranger's really creepy personal secrets that will make you wonder about the purpose of life on this planet and the future of our species. It's even quite likely that at some point in the evening you'll look up from the frosty side of a Jaeger shot that some dude named Mikey just bought you, and– while admiring his epic non-ironic 'stache and the fact that he's still on the barstool despite the drunkslouch, you'll wonder how the hell you ended up here. You don't do Jaeger shots since that time when you were 20 and you had to get hosed down before your roommates let you in the house.* 


Anyway, I'm staying in with a nice ginormo glass of wine and, if I can convince Cpt Awesomepants, cartoons. I am a party ANIMAL. 


Tip your bartender, people. Drive safe. Happy New Years. 

*fictional. Sort of. It was very nice of them.