The black cat is always a good sign

A note about fate: Fuck it!

I am not one who believes in fate. When a person makes a decision, it inevitably whittles down the possible outcomes. This choose-your-own-adventure path is not fate. I am also not one who believes in self-determination or making one's own luck. One only controls so much destiny, as each person's whittled outcomes tend to smash into the whittled outcomes of others. And, thus, chaos flows from logic and order. Welcome to the universe!

Let's recap: I vowed to work through the pain, only to receive my comeuppance with the death of my beloved cat. (While I use the word "comeuppance" and curse the universe, I know it's not fate - it's rather a horrible coincidence that supremely sucks. It's just far more to fun to rant against the universe than to coldly shrug things off.) Now I am a mess and I do try to keep my promise and work through the pain. The universe again chooses to reward my attempts at success by kicking me in the balls.

It's football time! I adore the sport, and losing myself in the games and fantasy football provides a nice distraction. Of course, the teams I love are blown out. The teams I admire are brutalized. The teams I hate all thrive. The obnoxious fans online make all sports sites I visit disgusting with their spiteful gloating. So much for *that* bit of escapism.

Back in reality, I am the typical wretch - the one shown in the movie when the sad violin music is playing. Peri always clawed at the basement door when she wanted to come back inside. She trained me well, and I jump to attention whenever I hear that sound. I did hear the sound, and I did jump to attention. Like a true wretch, I even went to the door despite knowing no cat would be there.

Turns out that sound I heard was a bird hitting the glass and dying. Now I ask you...ISN'T THIS GETTING A BIT OVER THE TOP? Can't I get some good karma thrown my way?

So today I took my mom to the hospital. She was diagnosed with ulcers, brought on by the stress that comes from the Paulsen life. I can whine all I want, but my troubles are nothing compared to the ruthless savagery dealt out to her from the universe. This speaks to her strength over mine. My upcoming root canal (part 2: revenge of pain!) is nothing in comparison.

A note about ambition: Fuck it!

As previously mentioned, I am ready to resort to talking head syndrome. Until I learn to letter with more discretion, draw my characters smaller in the panels or learn to use nibs of different sizes in my drawing, I am not going to bother with backgrounds in the comic. Right now the focus needs to be on getting the stuff done, and cutting corners is fine by me.

The scene I am working on originally had Dionne offering Bud and Jacob milk and cookies as they sat to chat. This is far too difficult to draw, so they will now be just standing around. Besides, most of the snack scene ended up being cut from the final script anyway. My vow is now to make drawing the strip as easy as possible. FUCK MY AMBITION! NO ONE HAS TO KNOW!

A note about productivity: Fuck it!

I'm trying. Man, I'm trying. I've tried drawing out strips, but I'm not up to the task of trying to ink what I have right now. I tried scripting more strips for Precocious, but the little I've written has been WAY TOO BITTER for what is to be the second strip once the first arc is done and strip begins regular updating. I've already nixed my original holiday storyline due to massive blasphemy. It's just not marketable to drive consumers into a blind rage right away.

I turned to my sketchbook next, with horrible results. Man, I wish art was like a real profession - that training would allow me to turn it on and off and work during set hours. The only good sketch I did was of Sydney Oven sitting on a couch looking annoyed. Everything else: utter crap!

A note about logic: Fuck it!

And, finally, I decided on a whim to try and draw Roddy in ink. While it is something I need to work out in time, as the first regular update arc is all about Roddy, there are far more pressing needs. Also curious about the decision: I am frighteningly low on India ink. By wasting it on the black cat, I am now forced to leave my house to purchase art supplies! SCANDALOUS! At least the ink Roddy turned out OK.

A note about brevity: Fuck it!