Hi! It's Been... Several Years Since I've Logged Into This Account. Here's Some Art I Just Finished Today.

Hi! It's been... several years since I've logged into this account. Here's some art I just finished today. This has been posted on my other social media accounts as well 😊

Inspirational

So, okay, fun fact. When I was a freshman in high school… let me preface by saying my dad sent me to a private school and, like a bad organ transplant, it didn’t take. I was miserable, the student body hated me, I hated them, it was awful.

Okay, so, freshman year, I’m deep in my “everything sucks and I’m stuck with these assholes” mentality. My English teacher was a notorious hard-ass, let’s call him Mr. Hargrove. He was the guy every student prayed they didn’t get. And, on top of ALL OF THE SHIT I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH, I had him for English.

One of the laborious assignments he gave us was to keep a daily journal. Daily! Not monthly or weekly. Fucking daily. Handwritten. And we had to turn it in every quarter and he fucking graded us. He graded us on a fucking journal.

All of my classmates wrote shit like what they did that day or whatever. But, I did not. No, sir. I decided to give the ol’ middle finger to the assignment and do my own shit.

So, for my daily journal entries, over the course of an entire year, I wrote a serialized story about a horde of man-eating slugs that invaded a small mining town. It was graphic, it was ridiculous, it was an epic feat of rebellion.

And Mr. Hargrove loved it.

It wasn’t just the journal. Every assignment he gave us, I tried to shit all over it. Every reading assignment, everyone gushed about how good it was, but I always had a negative take. Every writing assignment, people wrote boring prose, but I wrote cheesy limericks or pulp horror stories.

Then, one day, he read one of my essays to the class as an example of good writing. When a fellow student asked who wrote it, he said, “Some pipsqueak.”

And that’s when I had a revelation. He wanted to fight. And since all the other students were trying to kiss his ass, I was his only challenger.

Mr. Hargrove and I went head-to-head on every assignment, every conversation, every fucking thing. And he ate it up. And so did I.

One day, he read us a column from the Washington Post and asked the class what was wrong with it. Everyone chimed in with their dumbass takes, but I was the one who landed on Mr. Hargrove’s complaint: The reporter had BRAZENLY added the suffix “ize” to a verb.

That night I wrote a jokey letter to the reporter calling him out on the offense in which I added “ize” to every single verb. I gave it to Mr. Hargrove, who by then had become a friendly adversary, for a chuckle and he SENT IT TO THE REPORTER.

And, people… The reporter wrote back. And he said I was an exceptional student. Mr. Hargrove and I had a giggle about that because we both knew I was just being an asshole, but he and the reporter acknowledged I had a point.

And that was it. That was the moment. Not THAT EXACT moment, but that year with Mr. Hargrove taught me I had a knack for writing. And that knack was based in saying “fuck you” to authority. (The irony that someone in a position of authority helped me realize that is not lost on me.)

So, I can say without qualification that Mr. Hargrove is the reason I am now a professional writer. Yes, I do it for a living. And most of my stuff takes authorities of one kind or another to task.

Mr. Hargrove showed me my dissent was valid, my rebellion was righteous, and that killer slugs could bring a city to its knees. Someone just needs to write it.

Question

Am I the only one who wants to put bubble wrap under the red carpet at big events to confuse all the celebrities? Please tell me I'm not the only one.

Lord Ganondorf, how does one deal with grief?

Do not shy away from it. Some pains only grow if they are denied. Grief is one such pain. Allow it to enter you fully. Experience and savor each moment like you would a meal prepared by a loved on, for that is exactly what grief is; the final farewell of one close to the heart. Do not disrespect their departure with suppression.

However, do not allow their absence to take hold of you either. Grief is a necessary step on the path to healing. If it is denied, it will resurface, but if it consumes you, it will devour your soul until you are but a shell of the one you were meant to become.

Allow your system to process your grief, and learn that is it necessary to say goodbye, and move on.

I like the fact that Medic is just sitting on one of the Heavy’s legs, but it’s like the perfect size for him.

credit to the person I re-blogged this from

Here’s my TF2 Secret Santa for JamieKinosian. The request was Heavy & Medic stargazing. Hope this is what you were looking for, and Merry Christmas!

In my attempt to portray the vastness of sky, I made it hard to see anything clearly. Well done, me. So I included a close-up.

Heavy, your hands are ridic’.

you’re welcome. *smiles back*

*shyly walks up to the spy* S-so I heard you're god with knives. Could you maybe show me some cool tricks?

*Looks down at you and smiles* Sure any ideas