Untitled Work of Art #1: the One Without a Title, (not called "tits")

The Life and Times of Obscure Blog Boy

Meet Obscure Blog Boy.

He is not so much a sad individual as he is sad to behold. Blog Boy is not aware of the observer, though. No. Blog Boy is on an altogether different plane of existence than you or I. Look at Blog Boys hat.

To us, his life is mere text, a collision of keyboard and finger. Just the one finger. The other fingers reel in horror at what great and terrible things their kin taps away into the night and early morn, for what manner of beast, what twisted entity of the 'enter' key would dare suffer such a life of obscurity?

Blog Boy. Blog Boy would for the existence' own sake.

Blog Boy divides his time between nightmarish scenarios and cripplingly beautiful reactions to them. Would that he could know that about himself. Would that we all could see such things of ourselves. There are times when he will curse to the sky, fist clenched so tightly that butter drips from it, screaming at whatever happened to be there.

 "THAT CLOUD LOOKS TO LIKE, AND I KNOW IT MUST LIKE SINCE IT SMILES WITH SHOWING TEETH!"

when to us, it just looks like mashed potatoes. Blog Boy would not be able to understand what that is. He eats his potatoes whole. Sometimes he will forget himself as a physical being and get startled by his own shadow, his reflection, the inflection in his voice, a lamp.

It's not long, however, before he remembers himself and can once again know the score.

Blog Boy lives in a world full of...well quite frankly, disturbing things. The rain itself burns the skin off his umbrella and the umbrellas have no skin creams.

He thinks about Blog Girl a lot.

Not because he ought to, as though someone should think of her because she's a frail, helpless thing to be noted and kept in sealed containers within sealed containers because that's how helpless she is that she would need that kind of isolating from the world.

No. He thinks about her not only because she gave him that hat, (though, in an existence where the sun actively seeks eyes to be made sore, it was a gift most appreciated) but also because that hat permitted him to behold her smile when she beheld his willingness to wear it. And no one ever smiles there unless it's worth it because smiling is an immensely painful thing to do in this realm.

But they do.

And on some strange level, that is a painfully pretty thing to think about if you ask me.

CROSS TALK #1: "Hey Man - Was That Any Good?"

Hey man - was that any good? I just knocked that right out in something like ten minutes! Ok, like half an hour. Point is though: AWESOME

Check that shit out!

Man, this purposeless creation model is bomb's up. It just frees me up! As opposed to the other way, which just freeze me up. I can't tell you the trouble I've had with writers block, honestly.

Oh. This is for Derf.

Anybody else is free to comment, though! Yet Derf...is the only one for whom it would be appropriate to reply to me in the form of a full-on blog post, if he wished.

What a weird way to do it though. Why am I not just...e-mailing? Or PM'ing? WHY CONDUCT PRIVATE DISCOURSE VIA PUBLIC MEANS??

WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF SUCH BEHAVIOR??

EDIT: I forgot my goal to include an image of some kind, with each post I make. Sometimes, I will not do this goal. But I hereby edit an image into this post alltheless!

Webcomic Blues #1

Odd social Norms, or Why I learned to stop hugging and love the knuckle bump.

       As many are aware, human interaction has garnered some very strange habits that, on the face of them seem normal now, but at the time of their conception must have been perceived as just a little bit weird, or were even meant for something else entirely.

I am of course referring to hugs. And other things. Mostly hugs.

Now. Some will undoubtedly say I am an incredibly awkward and broken person for what I'm about to say, and for the most part I get it. I do. I definitely mostly get it. However. As I am not in fact a unique and graceful snowflake, I'm gonna go ahead and say it anyway because I have to believe I'm not the only one who's thinking it, and even if I was, that isn't any sort of reason for me not to say it. With that bit covered, let's crack on shall we?

So hugs. Hugs.

Those things that for many are nowt but a warm, meaningful embrace, or a perfunctory squishing of another persons organs to maintain the status quo between friends, family, lovers, etc. who are, for their own reasons, unable to just admit that these emotive clamps are friggin' weird. When exactly did this become a thing? I believe its origin was not just a base feeling that we were born with from the get-go, but something far more sinister.

It was snakes. Snakes invented hugging. To death. Whether you believe in creationism or evolution, both beliefs have snakes so fuck you if you're gonna try to put a spin on an otherwise innocent rant about hugs. Save your incredibly passionate diatribes about each others faiths for...I don't know, Youtube comment sections. You will no doubt find kinship there. (seriously, why is that? How does Marcy Playground stir up religious debate?)

So snakes, right. Adam and Eve(or a couple of neanderthals) were sitting around one day, as they're known to, when one should get angry at the other. I don't know, maybe they really wanted that crotch leaf (or beating club)the other was sporting and just took it one day. Whatever the case, they're angry at one another okay? So they take some time apart to fume and maybe eventually get over it, when one of them sees a snake constricting a field mouse to death. This was another time so they probably didn't get it right away, but sooner or later they must have thought "That thing is making that other thing die by squeezing its body...hey...hey! I COULD DO THAT TO THE BASTARD THAT STOLE MY LEAF!(or beating club)"

Thus, the hug was born.

They danced back to their meadows(or caves) with all the enthusiasm of a boy band.

"I'm gonna make them die" they'll think. "I'm gonna make them die by squeezing their body."

As soon as they arrive, they set their ghastly plan into motion, springing forward like a flesh and bone bear trap. There are "argh!" sounds and everything. Their would be victim, however, is not dying for some reason. Maybe the hugger is weaker than the hugged. Maybe their arms are shorter and cannot fit around their victim. I don't know. I'm not a doctor. At any rate, their plan is failing.

Meanwhile, the hugged starts thinking "Hey...hey! This is kinda nice. I feel...a thing!" and begins to speak(or grunt). "Hey you...hey this is a nice thing you're doing to me. Your nice thing makes me want to give you back your leaf(or beating club). Please take it, and accept my apology"

The hugger stumbles back, confused, but ultimately satisfied with the result of their actions.

"What made you want to do that thing to me?" the hugged asks.

Not knowing what to say(or grunt), the hugger mutters "I don't know...you stole my leaf and I wanted to make you die"

Shocked, and a little pissed off, the hugged bears their teeth in anger at the hugger and begins plotting their companions demise.

Thus, the smile is born.

Regarding Thinking

There are times in my life when I find myself thinking. It's at these times that I start to get very worried about my state of mind because what the hell, man? Do well-rounded, functional, relatively sane people think about these things too? I want to believe that's the case, but when I see others doing their taxes on time, buying groceries that will both A)provide nourishment, and B) leave their bowels intact after consumption, or god help them, being responsible in other ways, well...I somehow doubt that they're pondering high five etiquette and the force high fivers would need to bend a frying pan between the pair of them. Obviously, one would hold the frying pan tightly and thrust it forward while the other, hand sheathed in vibration resistant metal, makes good use of the "aim at the elbow" rule. But how much thrust is needed there, exactly? It must vary between brands and be much easier to do with say, ones that have copper cores. All this should take place well after meals, because if you're gonna buy a load of frying pans, you may as well get some use out of them before their impending destruction ensues.

Come to that, what would you call a lot of frying pans? I want to say a murder of frying pans because maybe murder doesn't have to be such a horrible, fear inducing word anymore but I guess that's really the observers decision, isn't it. It may be too hefty a task to try save the word "murder" as well...hmm.

Anyway, so these meals should be grand so as to get the most use out of the frying pans, with the final course being burned to cinders. That way it's not entirely frowned upon to...I don't want to say waste because their destruction can yield results of a kind, but certainly disposal of them won't
be given the face ugliness from passersby. Those pans will be wrecked. This is friggin' SCIENCE, PEOPLE! Gather ye frying pans while ye may, old time is still a-flying, and this same cookware that fries today, tomorrow will be dying.

Can inanimate things even die? I would think, no. On that same token, however, I would also spend my morning cup of coffee wondering (if he existed, naturally) whether or not Captain America would consent to having his Vibranium shield turned into gloves so he and I(after a generous dose of the Super Soldier Serum) can find the bending point of the worlds cookware. Because that's the best way to find out. Oh no, not that fancy, sane science.

COMIC BOOK SCIENCE! It's a thing.

Why Work?

This is the first post in a series. Why Work? First, clearly - to get paid. Why else work?

Well, think about it. A man had two servants. One of them, he had stripped to the waist and flogged publically. The other? He got a rich gift of seven sheckels. For who shall question the master of the house?

That's a parable, people, and the moral to the story is: there isn't one. Things are set up how they're set up. Do I deserve this?

Did I deserve to be born?

No. Did you?

Because if you did, how'd you pull that off? Deserving to be born. I didn't even deserve to be conceived. As far as I can tell, it's a sperm-in-a-million chance that I'm ever even right here typing this. I am quite literally figuratively - the single representative who made it through, out of all of William Shakespeare's complete works of the infinite monkeys! Oh, sure, the number of sperm in any given load's not technically "infinite," but then, sperm can't type, either. So the metaphor falls down if you overextend it, but that's true of all metaphors. Metaphors are delicately balanced, easy to fall over when you stretch too far.

So if you deserved it - if you deserved being born - well, I'd like to know how, that's all. Because - sweet trick.

Heck, I didn't even consent to being born. Did you? If so, why?! Considering where you were, I mean. I resisted my ass off on that transition, I never even wanted to grow! I didn't want to get all big and cramped and crowded in there. I just wanted to stay a little pea-sized twerp, happy suspended in a huge, warm universe of cling and bounce, the amniotic sac, one of many floaties drifting in the warm fluid of the entire universe - and nutrition. Oh, the nutrition. God. That sweet, rich, saltywarm nutrition WOMP WOMP WOMP - straight to the navel! With every pulse, and pulse, and pulse of that endless samba my mommy's heart was pumping out steady boom steady, a tom tom signal to the one-man tiny man tribe who boogied within her, a message: "All clear!" "The revolt has been postponed, three a.m. and all's well." I didn't know that was my mommy. It was the fucking universe, as far as I was concerned and why should I have to leave it?

"'Mother' is the word for God, on the lips and hearts of all small children," quoth The Crow. Or words to similar effect, and of similar import. And he's got a point, people. That freaky regenerating vengeful revenant has a point. And he would know. Because he's got that weird, wobbly crow eyes vision. He can see over his own shoulder, like a bird!

So why work? Well that answer's pretty easy.

Because every god damn mother fucking one of us got disconnected from the universe an age ago. Because we were expelled from the only universe we knew, where everything was beautifully and perfectly deserved, or felt like it. Where contentment was both wakefulness, and deepest dream - we got disconnected POP! from the navel! Expelled and found ourselves crying, coerced, forced into this place! "Reality" they call it. Reality my ass. Where nothing happens naturally, not even nutrition! You have to howl for it, and suck titties just to poop your own drawers, albeit - to be honest, that wasn't so bad. But you grow and grow - the curse of nutrition. At every phase, you grow and grow, and life becomes a succession of disconnections from support, POP! from the navel! POP! from the home, into kindergarten with you for your milk and cookies! Your snack and nap! POP! ejected from college with some weird certificate, just as you were getting used to school food and good at the strange tests they'd prod you with. POP! into the void of

- work.

Where we are now. Where our original deep dream and wakefulness of contentment has faded, from being the only thing we knew, into a thing barely even remembered. Fouled into a resentment that clings. A bitter remembrance of better things, when what we needed simply seemed deserved, and happened naturally.

And so we work.

The craziest thing is? Your mom had the same exact thing happen to her. The cycle of victimhood goes back and back.

Sedimentary, my dear Watson.

Well. Where to begin. I spent way too much time trying to think of what my foundation stone should be for this mighty fine, pointless endeavour I embark on tonight. Suddenly it was all clear, though. To overthink is to sully what this place is for! So I did a shot, closed my eyes, scratched wildly with a pencil, and smudged the resulting mess with the accuracy of a 2 year old that didn't listen to Mozart in the womb. That said, meet the foundation stone. His name is Freddy Mentary.

He likes crushing timelines, (criminally)long sit downs on riverbeds, and Stone Phillips.

Now. You're probably saying to yourself "but Guy Person, aren't you making this rockin' bod the face of this pointless realm?" and you would be right to question. That, however, is not the case. See, the thing is I am not making Mr. Mentary do anything. I mean yeah, I brought him into existence so in that sense I did make him, but not expressly to function. Oh no. I wouldn't dream of it. And while this realm is pointless, that shouldn't suggest any of you people are. With these two things in mind, I submit to you that Freddy here will do nothing for me. However, should you care to grace the lands with your comments, I may, at some point bless/plague Freddy with what you think he should do from time to time. Mostly though, I'll be taking a frontal assault on your "why the fuck does this need to exist?" detectors, in the form of poorly written rants and vagaries.

Maybe. No promises.

I thank you for your time, and may whatever deity or ideal you regard highly, do whatever.