Friday, July 2

I find this website of mine to be a perfect place to vent my frustrations, insecurities, and general life problems. Like the fact that I have no idea how I just fell completely out of my chair while writing that last sentence. How did that just happen? It's a pretty solid chair, yet I managed to let gravity win.

So I've been working on the same script for months now, writing and re-writing it. It's just one of the Big Scary Monster cartoons, but for some reason every version just kind of sucks. I know it'd be so bad ass if I could just make it, you know, but I just can't seem to get a draft I like. shit.

so here's a cartoon about my frustrations, insecurities, and general life problems.

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Howie the little girl is talking a nice walk in the sunshine. Unlike other people, she doesn't feel like she should be stuck inside on beautiful days in front of computer screen writing and re-writing drafts of a script that means very little in the grand scheme of everything. Nope. Instead she's enjoying the day in the company of her best friend, Mr. Happy Severed Head. Head for short.

"What a great day this is," Howie says. "Boy, I sure like days where there's nothing to do but go on walks with your best friend."

They walk on down the street, rotted severed head under her arm, big smile on her cute chubby face.

There is a ditch, and Howie and Head walk past. They hear a moaning from inside this ditch. Howie approaches and looks down into the dark ravine. A dirty man in his early thrities is lying face down in the dirt.

"Hello?" says Howie. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," says the thin man. "I'm fine. I'm just covered in sludge. And a failure. I'm fine, but I'm a big failure. And I'm going bald." He sits up. "And I don't have a home because I can't get a job because I'm not good at anything."

"What about mopping floors?" asks Howie. "I thought everyone could mop a floor."

"Sure I can mop floors." says the man, wiping some sludge off his eyelids. "But I'm not good at dealing with indignity. I make movies. I dont mop floors."

"Even when you have to sleep in ditches?"

"I chalk it up as life-experience. It'll make me a better writer. Maybe one day I'll be sort of good, if I sleep in enough ditches and talk to enough little girls carrying around severed human body parts."

Howie sighs. "I have no time for self-pity, not in myself or in those around me. Life is good and I don't want to hear otherwise. Go clean yourself up, buddy."

And Howie walks off, not worried about anything at all.

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