Blood and Ink

The fleece-lined jeans that I bought, deliberately too small, at the beginning of January are now starting to slide down on my hips. I will need a belt soon. I stand over the kitchen counter, attacking a roasted chicken from the grocery store directly with a fork, mindless of the juice and stray bits of pepper on my face. There are no need for formalities or plates here. Sugar is sloth. Sugar is weakness. I am satisfied by the bitterness of the darkest chocolate and black coffee. I am hungry, but it is not a hunger for food. We are beyond that now. This week I had part of my signature tattooed on the knuckles of my drawing hand, as a reminder and a symbol of the commitment to my goals. It burned. It felt good. As I eat, I become acutely aware of the feeling of my teeth.

Every day is a step closer to death. I am alive.

XVII

I have reached another breaking point, and feel strongly that my time is now. I am attempting to have one or two of my team members promoted, so that I can gracefully bow out of my current employment with little disruption. Myself, I am negotiating for a position where I would work three 9-10 hour days per week, as close to my current rate of pay as possible, so that I would net only about a one-quarter to one-third loss in reliable income. This would leave me with one day per week to dedicate to administrative and social activities, and three full days to achieve a good workflow producing artwork and comics.

I cannot tolerate my lack of artistic productivity any longer. Please support my Patreon if you enjoy my work, or care about me on a personal level at all.

« Escape Velocity :: Clean »

Comments are closed.