Oh wow, I forgot I had a blog! All I do anymore is PAINT. No more fast food or customer service, wading ankle deep in the stupidity that is humanity.
Now I pour my bottomless fount of hate into my art. I'm published, even, in a Lovecraftian all-female anthology. Is that awesome or what? I did the interior illustrations. Great Cthulhu does whatever passes for smiling among the Old Ones in my direction.
"Lovecraftian" is a word, Spellchecker. I shall find your creator and make a likeness of his carcass impaled upon a big ass spike in the background of some painting or other.
My ex-employer's head was the inspiration for a shrunken head in a painting I finished last year. I kept it cartoonish enough so that she won't be instantly recognizable to her friends or family, but the hair and the lips and the eyebrows are the same. With the eyes and the mouth stitched closed, of course.
Oddly, I'm not satisfied. I want to kill her some more. Feed her to Thsoggua, or roast her on a spit.
All that keeps me from being a murderer is my lack of faith in my ability to avoid detection.
When you're as fascinated by death as I am, and you make no bones about who you hate and why, I don't see how I could *not* be a suspect. But she has breast cancer. Maybe she'll die soon, and I can piss on her grave. That would be nice.
I am happy-ish. I HATE people, and now I don't have to look at them if I don't want to. I can hang out in my creepy old house, heavily laden with vintage Halloween decorations, gargoyles and monsters, and paint.
Fuck you, humanity. And that'll be $450 for the graphic representation of my "fuck you".
I'm slowly saving money to buy a bigger house. One with three stories and a yard big enough to make a mock cemetery.
I'll have to come here regularly now that I have time.
Gods know I still have plenty to rant about.
