29 June 2005

my latest claim to fame.

Rebecca told me today that some uppity sort had once said he was the only man on earth to have read Ulysses twice.
i'm sorry to disappoint, good sir (whoever you are), but i Too, have read Joyce's brilliant work of literary excess twice.
of course, it's been so long ago now, that were i in some life-threatening predicament where i would have to prove this fact, i would most likely die like a dog.
but i do Insist on claiming joint ownership to that Weighty assertion. somehow it gives intellectual weight to my geek-dom.

hmm. perhaps i'm the first female person on earth to have read Ulysses twice?
perhaps there are many of us out there? closeted sorts, who are hesitant to admit to this? perhaps there should be a support group?

I hereby send out the call, to those of you who have read Ulysses more than once, may you step forth into the blog-light, and be acknowledged in your full glory!

and to those of you awaiting trousers...

fret not! I have two new chapters on the way, the irascible Willow Dawson, and the gloriously ephemeral Kari Minchin both just sent me some Glorious photos from their respective vacation places in BC. patience, dear readers, patience. more astonishing stef-made garments and their exotic adventures to follow...

ok, i give in.

I've lost my interest in blogpatrol of late, mostly 'coz one of my more clever readers thinks it's funny to taint my google subject matter with stef-blog-specific searches. (like names of my friends all mixed together + the word nudity or some such pap)
Which, to me anyhow, makes it less of an interesting insight into the googling world, and more about some trickster determined to get a laugh. And it really gets on my nerves, to be honest. one mustn't ignore my obvious tendency to get quickly annoyed with people making fun of me (I'm still a recovering 11 year old outcast, keep this in mind.)

however, in this instance, i give in. i don't know if this is my googling blog-trickster-genius, or a real google search, but in case it's real, let's face it, it's a Great one. someone typed the following words into google to see what would come up, and wouldn't you know it, they arrived here: "aimless walking around before you get up can't sleep television addict think you are unattractive fascination with wars"

oh yes, and to the person who commented (on a posting far far away from this one, which they probably got to by googling "Igor toronto stolen bikes", which was recorded on Saturday)... about their brand new Kona getting stolen this Saturday from in front of the reference library, I am not only Utterly and Totally Sympathetic, but somewhat horrified, since I myself spent much of this very Saturday at the reference library myself, so this must well have happened as i sat inside drawing weird clowns and whatnot from the picture collection. It is indeed a Weird and Small and potentially evil world.
I don't have Igor specific advice for you, dear bike-theft-victim, except to be MERCILESS. go in, find the bike, bring a cell phone and call the cops, and DON'T LEAVE THE STORE until you walk out with said bike. Best of Luck.

"hellth care" (sic) in Canada.

well. i sat in a waiting room for over an hour today, only to have a FEMALE doctor tell me that women are CURSED TO ENDURE PAIN AND SHOULDN'T BE QUESTIONING IT (her words) and basically i should just Suck it up that I've been experiencing (coming and going) fever, vertigo, passing out (okay, only once) and some invisible entity that is insisting as of late on ripping my innards apart, ovulating or not, all month long.
she told me (i KID YOU NOT) to just take some advil.
perhaps most people don't think this is Completely Fucking outrageous.
i mean this is the sort of prognosis I would expect from a male doctor of course (sorry guys), that sympathetic expression that males have to put on, 'coz the dear things don't know what the hell is going on in there or what it feels like, despite what their textbooks (or girlfriends) might tell them.
but it can't be that bad, they think, or they would call it cancer or something.

But to have a woman say to me that we're meant to be in pain, and just because something is painful doesn't mean there is anything wrong (her words again), and then refuse to examine the problem further, is to me an example of Iredeemable INSANITY.

of course, you can call me histrionic, you wouldn't be the first. Gah.

27 June 2005

Essays in Love: Alain de Botton.

"Seeing through people is so easy, and it gets you nowhere."...
May we not therefore fall in love partly out of a momentary will to suspend seeing through people, even at the cost of blinding ourselves a little to the process?"

Mr. de Botton, i Love you. even the second (third?) time around.


you know, it's not alot of people who can say they set their ass on fire (for about 2.8 seconds) in the middle of Kensington Market on a Sunday night in June.
not alot.

i must never forget i am among the privileged.

26 June 2005

nostalgia #4038.



in a conversation a few weeks ago, i stated my theory that evil=indifference. that they are synonyms. this theory was countered with the idea that there might be people in the world who don't have enough feeling, literally the way some people have weak muscles, iron deficiencies, gamey legs, some people don't physiologically have enough feeling to handle certain things about life, to feel about life.

i've modified my theory. i believe that evil, and its associated degrees of demonics, is a lack of accountability.
akin to indifference, no accountability means no concern.

no concern gives one the freedom to do whatever one wants, regardless of consequence.
this to me is (literally)inhuman behaviour.
the one thing that separates us from animals is the ability to think about what we do, to consider it, to note its effect on others, to act with compassion, etc. etc.

let's face it, we're all doing stupid shit. but there is an increasing permissiveness in the world; allowing people to act without accountability. emotionally, financially, physically, whatever. it is getting easier and easier for people to find excuses not to be responsible for their behaviour.

i find this Intensely Discouraging.

Self: final thoughts.

well, i had been disparaging, somewhat nonplused, enjoying the novel but not moved by it. i thought to myself, there are a lot of unnecessary thoughts in this book. if i want unnecessary thoughts i can get these in my own brain.
and then, on page 285, about 25 pages before the end of the book, Mister Martel placed a shotgun to my temple and pulled the trigger.

i stand corrected.

24 June 2005

JP and trousers in front of weighty german cultural institution.

and again, in front of the Kunstmuseum in Stuttgart. what form! what aplomb! what Trousers!

the adventures of stef lenk's astonishing trousers: chapter 2.

JP on Königstrasse: these pics hail from my ancestral town of Stuttgart, Deutschland, where my fine stef-made trousers see my friend John Patrick through his morning espresso.

23 June 2005

see, the one thing...

about being Michael Ondaatje and Linda Spalding is that you get to OWN A FIRST EDITION OF PETER PAN ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR RACKHAM. WWWWOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWW.
oh my.
(Huge sigh of covetous yearning.)
(for the book, that is.)

21 June 2005

as for Self...

well, mister Martel, i'm just not sure.
although it is exciting to me to be able to see when a novel is a "before the masterpiece" novel.
he's not as sure what he's trying to say here, i feel, as he was with Life of Pi. which was like a shotgun through the temple, in terms of genius and clarity. (if you ask me) (which you didn't.)(but you're reading this blog, so that's your problem, not mine.)
but i'm still only halfway through the book, with Self, that is.
he is a she, but she hasn't done much yet.

sometimes, if this makes any sense, i feel like i don't read enough bad books.
not that there aren't Tonnes (and tonnes and tonnes) out there, but i'm more selective these days, and definitely have a clearly defined reading list that it's hard to muscle in on.
and i'm finally at a point where i put down the hopeless ones without this stubborn dedication to suffer myself through them as in days gone by.
one reaches a point where one has to say "shweethaut, this just ain't long term. we've reached our maximum page count, now take yer signatures and hustle!"

although with some i have faith. faith is nice. i really like faith. it's this strange sweet rarity for me.
and so, onwards with Self.

mailing error? Blessed Emily, Blessed Kiss Machine, BLESSED Blessed Snail mail.

i got home to a (possibly mismailed?) copy of Mariko and Jillian Tamaki's SKIM, courtesy of Kiss Machine in my mailbox. in my Snail mailbox.
may I read you just the cover?(heheh, like you have a choice, dear readers. my stress levels have made me diabolical and downright pushy in blogworld)
"this is the diary of Skim Takota. so fuck off." in tiny tiny letters on a bed of Wonderfully rendered hair.
Bliss and Glee!



looking at this the morning after, it looks like a bunny from a Bergman film, staring despondently into the white ether of cyber space.
i'm going to start a series. "harmless things inadvertently made depressing" by stef lenk. (you'll love it Barker, i'll try to find a deflated balloon for you)

20 June 2005

today and me.

or Worse, even.
if it (and i) can get worse.
and they Did.

18 June 2005

a momentary pondering about last night's subject of conversation.

i was waving my finger at Monsieur le JP's vaguely diminutive frustration towards people who've invariably developed crushes on him. seeing as he's a very crushworthy individual, how can one be angry or frustrated with those who become smitten?

he corrected me: "people develop crushes on their idea of me"

a good point. how true that is. isn't that the Constant problem of crushes? we have some idea of what/who we are seeing in front of us, that speaks to what we are looking for, and we don't look any further. and then we get angry when that person isn't the lifesaver we thought we had found.

another friend of mine recently told me about a book she had been reading where this was addressed as well, (in this case it was specific to guys, but i'm sure us ladies are guilty of similiar practise) it read that there is this tendency to glorify women or put them on some sort of pedestal of perfection, and then spend the entire aftermath of the honeymoon being frustrated and disappointed when you find out they fart, burp, stress out, and won't save you from yourself.

of course one can only know someone from the facts presented. if you present yourself as an all-knowing glorious superhero, that is what people will be attracted to. and when they discover that beneath your manly superhero cape are merely (ahem) tattered old y-fronts, a slingshot, and a mickey in a paper bag, there will be, invariably, disappointment.

one must present oneself as one is.

which is precisely why i present myself as a nutter in a constant panic.


i should at least attempt to keep this site rated for family viewing.

meat locker.

i don't know why i'm calling it meat locker. i think i'll put some meat locker in the window frame.

and today, ladies and gentlemen,

food poisoning. (or alcohol poisoning? one nasty hangover that never left, two days hence? who knows.)
please send all sympathies, soup, carefully worded remonstrations, and hopes for a quick recovery to stef lenk, Depths of Hell, east-end toronto.

Batman begins.

as Monsieur le JP* aptly pointed out, it was a film made by someone who actually respected the story, not some basement comic geek wanker or CGI addict. someone who not only answers all your questions, but answers questions you didn't even know you had.
a True Story, told with the rhythm a story should follow. almost 1 1/2 hours buildup before the whole landslide of action begins. this is an interesting choice to me, given it isn't the safest way to handle this genre, knowing the (ahem) nature of Hollywood audiences. Christopher Nolan (memento) of course. There really should be some sort of "guarantee of quality" stamp of merit on Brit directed films. (i know, generalization...)
but it was really really great.
at the end of the film (Friday night) the whole house applauded, and then one guy said "did we see the same film?".
he obviously didn't realize the latest "independence day" flick was next door, and he had strayed into the wrong cinema.

*(not to be confused with John Patrick JP [yes i know two])

aaah, graduation.

well, graduation was as tedious as i had assumed it to be. as i sat in my monastic gown i decided against the path that would see me snoring and falling shamelessly out of my chair and instead chose that of senseless delirium.
so when the keynote alumnae speaker started in on her story of a freak hot air balloon accident she was involved in in her tender youth, which almost left her blinded (i'm so not joking), i Utterly Lost it. i almost managed to convince Cat my classmate to play cards, but we were sitting in the front row as the graduates from the Centennial's telemarketing program wandered off the stage with their strategic photo-opp looks at the crowd, and she was respectful enough to discourage that notion. we managed a few games of hangman, 'til the Head Honcho of Centennial College saw fit to tell us about her shoe fetish in her closing address, at which point i felt dead inside, and as the event rounded to a close, one of the speakers asked us to consider whether or not we felt we had changed.

i promptly got up and declared "I'M NOW A MAN."


it was no doubt this level of excitement, or perhaps my complimentary laundry powder graduation package, or perhaps my Raging hangover of the night before, that made me reach the limits of my energy as my mum and i travelled back into the real world via the LRT. i fought off all the guilt that i had perhaps ruined this ritual day for my dear mum, who actually found the ceremony quite significant, and rested my head on her shoulder for 20 winks.

it was in this split second i Totally went back to being 5, ttc'ing home from a big day wandering around Toronto with said mummy, and promptly made the decision that Everyone in the world should be allowed some small sacred time where they are allowed to be 5.

17 June 2005


stef lenk groggily pulls herself to the computer after the stalker fax machine has tenaciously called her for the third time in an hour. grr. is there to be NO respite?
looks at time. 11.13am? Shameful.
previous post....my, that was brash and histrionic...457 AM!!?!?! oh goodness, that would explain it.
and that would explain, perhaps, this feeling like a sledgehammer in the back of my head, and this vague disdain i suddenly feel for tequila.
oh embarrassing life.


for a really long time i've believed that the harder you work (at Anything) the further/more fulfilled you get. whatever that means. i've believed in hard work/being present, (in All manners of human interaction) for a really long time.
i'm beginning to understand that i'm wrong, and it's really hard to disavow myself of that belief.

14 June 2005

now someone has gone and done it.

someone has googled "male masturbating vacuum cleaners" and arrived at my fair blog.
this is what happens when one stops checking these things.
and these things must be checked!

but i'll bet it makes you want to keep reading, doesn't it? (sigh.)

considering i'm such a Rampant bibliophile..

i don't talk much about what i'm reading here, do i?
well, right now is not the time for me to start, i've decided. i'm still reeling from my gratuitous dinner listings of last week.
but what i will do is post a tidbit from the just purchased (yes, it was that kind of day, i blame the unsolicited submissions, one by a white supremacist, the other an essay entitled "Protestant Pumpkins")
ladies and gentlemen, page 2, Yann Martel's Self:

I became aware of a voice inside my head. What is this, I wondered. Who are you, voice? When will you shut up? I remember a feeling of fright. It was only later that I realized that this voice was my own thinking, that this moment of anguish was my first inkling that I was a ceaseless monologue trapped within myself.

for all you snotty wankers who think Yann Martel is overrated, "blah blah blah Life of Pi blah blah blah whatever", PACK IT IN.

i am Exceedingly excited to have this book in my hands. (Cartwheelingly so.)

on the shoulders of giants.

with an apology to Sue, (and probably the rest of you who are wondering why they haven't locked me up yet...believe me, i do... a fervent promise to attempt to draw some bunny rabbits or flowers tomorrow. for my good as much as yours.

12 June 2005

email minutiae. (2)

it is to Barker that i owe many proverbially wasted minutes of my day, and i can't bear the thought that this stuff evaporates into the ether without at least a chuckle or two. so onwards, more minutiae...

on the panic of apartment hunting.

Calm thy self, Virginia Wolf.

i know. GAH! where is my coat?! where are my rocks?! where is the river?!

Stop it.

could i live in the river?

No. At least not for long. Well. Maybe if you keep your head above water.

erg. what if it's the wrong place?
i know.
but what if it is?

Quit it.

i'm trying.
(what if it is?)

Stop it.

perhaps i could build a dam.

Ahem. That would make you a beaver.


on tattoos and winkles.


Not ON my winkle, on my tummy silly!


Heh heh.

heheh Nothing. no directional flames.

How about travel stamps? Use-by-date stamps? Chaste arrows and dotted lines?
Cut-along-dotted-line directions?

harrumph. how 'bout "RETURN TO SENDER".



on sheltered existence.

you Obviously live under a rock.

Well duh.

it's okay. it's an easier transition to the cemetery when the time comes.

I've already picked out my urn.


on morals and ethics.

... I think it's important to discern ethics
from morals.

sigh. okay. i'm not feeling moral or ethical today.

Hmmm... What's that like for you?

11 June 2005

what i'm doing for an apartment right now.

last but not least before i retire.

i would like to make a public service announcement that the season brochure for Theatre Passe Muraille is now printed and circulating around the city and i'm unexpectedly and Immensely pleased with it. illustration no. 1 on the outside. it's around. find it and ogle. g'night.



08 June 2005


the very first time i heard about blogs was 4 years ago, i think.
some girl i was waitressing with said "i have a blog" and i said "what's a blog" and she said "it's an online journal thingy" and i said "oh."
and i went home and i looked and i found it, and read some lengthy and meandering ingredients list from her previous night's enterprise making spaghetti sauce.

i'm pretty sure i snorted with tremendous disdain, and never went back.


so tonight i was privy to the culinary mastery of my long-time dear friend Scott and it's just left me in a state of True and Utter Bliss. (now i'm a philistine, so i will need to be corrected on the name of the recipe) eggs au gratin with peppers and chorizo. accompanied by a healthy smattering of wine, a scott-made mélange of musical glee from the likes of the Manics,Levellers, Sheep on Drugs,Sigue Sigue Sputnik, the beloved NMA of course (and more), followed by tea, pecan tart and cheesecake courtesy of kensington, and some of the Finest Conversation known to humanity. (sigh)
watched the Office for the first time, followed by a documentary on the making of Withnail & I, and all in all there was so much Anglophilic indulgence that it was almost (Almost) too much to bear.

Long-Time Friends, Good Food, and Cultural Indulgences of a foreign nature are Unparalleled Treasures. Truly, Truly.

07 June 2005


ladies and gentlemen of the internet, the website is up. Go hither. try not to chuckle at how freaked i was over the small little dearies, they're much Much bigger (and More Time Consuming to create) in real life; all will be apparent as the year unfolds. and there is one missing. such is the world of strategic marketing and limited webspace. woosh.
all gratuitous praise is welcome, and criticism (Constructive, mind you) as well. now go! WOOOOOO!

06 June 2005

and to quote...

"if hunger is still hunger, anything is possible."
Kent Nussey.


wow i wrote fuck alot last night. must have been the lateness of the hour. perhaps i should put an R rating on this site!

2.06am, and at Last some thoughts on TCAF.

so. dear old things. my day went as planned. i did indeed have tea, i did indeed chat lengthily with my friend Patrick in Delhi (i'm sure you're all Very happy to know he's having a Smashing time there.), and did finish the last Last LAST TPM illustration. survey says the site goes up tomorrow, but i'll post that info when i see it.
which brings me to my promise of days now past, to expound for a moment or five on TCAF, the Toronto Comic Arts Festival, held in its second incarnation in this fair city last weekend.
dear friends. it was disorganized, it was frantic, it was fabulous. the Toronto Comic Arts Festival, for which i volunteered (which is to say, i wandered around feeling important and giving people pee breaks) was the creme de la creme of comics makers from ... other places. you know.
i found a new favourite, james jean (WOW WOW WWWOOWWW! check the Sketchbooks, fellow culture mongers, check the SKETCHBOOKS.), got to hear academics talk about comics thanks to miz Gerard's organizational (and Poorly compensated, may i say) acumen in organizing a panel and speakers, got to mingle with comic artists gloriola Willow Dawson,Alana Machnicki, and Tyrone McCarthy and, most excitingly, hear Phoebe Gloeckner speak again, 'bout comics, life, and, this time around, murder victims in Mexico. woohoo!

so here are some tidbits, thoughts, floaty things of some pertinence in the river of pondering. (or the pond of pondering?)

first off, it's all still a boys' club. hands down. i asked the academics (of which two of them were women, Phoebe Gloeckner and Anne Rubinstein) what it was like to be a woman (or what the prevailing opinion was of women) speaking about a marginal genre to the academic world as a marginal gender of sorts.
hear this story.
so Phoebe Gloeckner sells a medical illustration she did of fellatio to a guy by the name of Al Goldstein (yes, the nyc porn king), and they're sitting at the restaurant, and they've finished eating, and he pulls out his wallet and starts counting hundreds onto the table to pay for (said painting), being Ostentatious to say the Least. everyone's watching, and then he looks at her and says "do you feel like a whore now?"
i'd say WHAT A FUCKING COCK. but he'd love that.
which sucks.
(yes, that too.)
she (PG) also points out that the first thing out of peoples' mouths so often is something to the tune of "oh, you're SO lucky you can draw! i can't even draw a straight line!", and it lends credence to this idea that people think of artists as these (and i'm quoting) "idiot savants, born with some sort of gift, instead of the artists and consumate Craftspeople they really are."

and to that all i can say is HERE HERE. and it's the Best skill. Ever. that's what i say. it brings with it this attempt to see things for what they are, to dissect and decipher them, and to record them and revisualize them for other people in a personal and meaningful way. YAHOOO! to Drawing.

and with comic artists, they have to be able to do everything well. draw well, express well, write well.
(clink of my proverbial wine glass) TO COMIC BOOK ARTISTS.

most fascinating to me was the story miz Gloeckner told of being phoned up by Mia Kirshner (sp? some actress famous chick? i don't know) and asked to go to Mexico to investigate the serial murders of a bunch of 20 something prostitutes, to record in a comic. so PG goes to Mexico, (sorry, an appendix for the uninitiated, miz Gloeckner illustrates sex manuals, and Very well, i might add.) she goes to Mexico, gets to know the family of one of the victims, and comes back to illustrate the story and realizes that the same illustrations she was once doing to illustrate other peoples' pleasure, the same ones, are now being used to accurately reflect another person's Pain.
there's this line, and both ends of the spectrum meet there, and it's terrifying.
this fascinates and causes me no small amount of anxiety. THIS is what i have been fretting about, with all my porn concern and thoughts on the psychology of sex. the line is thin, ladies and gentlemen, the line is thin.

and the only thing it's made of is respect and compassion. which is hard to find and to define as well, in this day and age.

anyhow, PG decides she's going to do the Mexico story by photographing dolls. (i'm paraphrasing the following here:) 'coz dolls survive, you know. you can do whatever to them and they are still...dolls."
not like drawings.
which may make sense to noone. but makes Alot of sense to me.

DRAWING: truly one of the Ultimate arts and forms of honesty. Truly Truly. (Madly, Deeply)

and interestingly, PG will no longer be illustrating sex manuals.

"These trousers never quit!"

"-- They play pool! They get lost in creepy tunnels!
They mourn over the lost age of polka!"

and with that, dear reader(s), we end the first chapter of "the adventures of stef lenk's astonishing trousers"
said trousers return to me tomorrow, along with miz Gerard, now safely back from grand ole (small l) london.

for chapter 2, i shall accost the incredible and multi-coloured Willow Dawson to take another pair of my self-made pants on her trip to Vancouver.
and, if i'm lucky, the illustrious Kari Minchin will make chapter 3's photographic contribution with stef-pants in her june journey to Canada's west coast! STAY TUNED, GOOD CITIZENS, STAY TUNED!
would that i had had the foresight to offer some exemplary britches to Rebecca to bring to the east coast of Canada last week. sigh. ah well, another chapter, another time.

more astonishment!

"the Trousers take London's city hall by storm, and try to lift a bike."

05 June 2005

special thanks to...

ladies and gentlemen of the internet, before i begin my day's blogging (ok before i begin my cup of tea which will lead to one last illustration which will lead after that to my days blogging, or to a lengthy discussion with my friend Patrick who is due to call from Delhi today, OR to nothing in particular 'coz i could well decide i've had enough of all of it and do myself in by attempting to stuff myself inside the air conditioner 'coz it's so hot in here)...last night i betook myself to bed with Brick 75 to have a perusal of the final polished product. ahhhh, who says that after three proofreads one doesn't want to see the whole thing again? anyhow, as i flipped away after lingering on the Chris Ware sketches, the Surrey County Lunatic Asylum portraits, and the Kent Nussey ponderings, i found myself on page 173 where i unexpectedly found (dabs hanky to eye momentarily) a SPECIAL THANKS! to ME!! well, a special thanks to lots of important people that i don't know, one gregarious and pee-happy puppy, but me TOO!
for those of you have been entertaining yourselves with this trifling blog for sometime, you may remember a while back when i was quite dismayed to be told by one of my teachers at school that i was not extraordinary, i was nothing special, i was just the same as everyone else.
to that i have these three small words:

04 June 2005

the adventures of stef lenk's astonishing trousers: chapter 1. london, ontario.

wherein the even more astonishing Shannon Gerard, in (small l) london for an academic panel on comic books, played violent video games at what she affectionately(?) called a "local dive"
in my astonishing trousers.
(ahem. goodness me! but it's true! those are them! i swear it!)

email minutiae.

okay, so it's not quite a real post. but i want to take a moment to relay a few bits'n'bobs from my world of email addiction that afforded me momentary respite over the last 10 days, and yes, for those of you who may be interested, i handed said 10 Utterly Completed illustrations to TPM today, and i think they were quite well received. WOOHOO! more details when i know for sure when the site is going up, when they are getting printed, etc.

so. for now, let's see.

••• tea for the perpetually melancholic in the afterlife•••

B: Pfft - it doesn't get easier really, as one gets older - 'cause even
with the hard won wisdom, the stakes just get higher and higher.

s: Quiet. leave me with my optimism. i need some right now.

B: Oh come on, I'm having a bad week, indulge me a little.

s: oh okay. it's all Hell and Misery. i agree. :] should we get plots
nearby so we can enjoy some post-mortem tea in the afterlife?

B: Absolutely - we can make tea from the ashes in the funeral urns.

••• the odiferous and ungainly nature of emotional residue.•••

s: I WANT TO BE ABLE TO DO THAT. i need to unload some emotional residue somewhere. somehow.

B: Ha!

s: i tried to unload it in someone's trash heap on my way home from the book launch tonight, but some fat bastard chased after me "hey lady, you left your emotional residue here. HEY. they don't pick that shit up for days and it starts smelling! go unload it in your own neighbourhood."
sigh. i had to be a good citizen and heed him. Rats.

B: How much emotional residue can anyone stand in one lifetime?

s: oh Christ. i DO NOT KNOW. i'm surprised i'm not Fat with all the residue i'm carrying around. where is it, i tell you? in the (snicker) "shapely largesse" of my biker's thighs? in my bum?
i just figured it out.
it's in my voluminous hair.
only yesterday i was commenting that my hair is now getting heavier than my head when i wear it up. Hilarious. i've just discovered it. how Apropos.

••• on how not to scare off the easily intimidated.•••

B: Slow down, smile more at the cute ones, talk more slowly, approach people etc. I don't know.

s: harrumph. talk more slowly. it's like asking the tsunami to hold up a minute please, while i get my pool noodle and move my beach chair out of the way.

01 June 2005

play by play.

ladies and gentlemen, for the sweet love of my left hand, i've got 10 illustrations down, ONE to go!!!!
and touch ups of course.
from now on i write a bottle of tequila into every freelance contract i take on.