Natural, unnaturally.

Apparently the only time I can be convinced to actually sit and draw comics is when there is an enormous, scary deadline looming where I might find myself humiliated and/or blacklisted if I don't pull the work out of somewhere in time. Over the last five days I have finished up (completely) seven pages of Ivy, and gotten three out of four of the Nerd Burglar story well on their way (two almost complete). I need to keep this pace up for the rest of this month and the next to have something new to show at Stumptown. Also on my wish list, besides completing the third chapter - which needs to be done a week early so Matt can get it printed - is to do the art and color seps for a new series of small prints which can be sold as a set or individually. I've had the idea in mind for quite some time, and yes, they will be featuring sort-of erotic nudes. And llamas.

So now I've got about a month to start and complete nine pages of Ivy, finish up the other six that remain half-done, do the cover, do the prints, finish this short story, and please oh please NOT TAKE ON ANY MORE WORK before I have a chance to finish the rest o' this stuff. Fortunately people aren't exactly knocking on my door for more projects - I've turned down a few just due to time constraints, though perhaps if any of them were paid I might be convinced to take them on (just sayin'). I'll still have a few original pages displayed up at the Portland Center for Performing Arts until May, go check 'em if you haven't yet (there's plenty of other incredible work up besides mine). And I got my first request by the fabulous Nate Beaty to write a blurb for the back of his upcoming BrainFag Forever book, coming out in August from Microcosm. You know you've hit the big time when other people give a shit what you think!

As far as personal shite goes, I've been occupying myself with daily deals and not looking too deeply within, but one recent change has unexpectedly brought up some issues. I recently made the decision to go back to my natural hair color. No big deal, right? But it's been ten years since I had anything approximating "real" as far as my hair goes (it's sort of a light mousy brown). I went to my stylist and she pieced it out, so it's got stripes of brown and stripes of an almost silvery toffee color - the overall look is close to my roots at first glance, but completely artificial under scrutiny, seeing as I've been bleaching my strands to within an inch of their life for the past year plus. I have no problem with artificial, obviously. But now when I catch my reflection out of the corner of my eye, I see glimpses of someone I'm not exactly comfortable with:


Her.

Little me, at twelve, in seventh grade. Perhaps the most miserable year of my entire life. And the following four years - no better. It wasn't until the summer before senior year that I started living life the way I wanted to - staying out late with friends, having sex, smoking weed, and dyeing my hair. Once I climbed into that funnycar I never looked back. Yet I dug a lot of these old photos out and scanned them in to see how I felt about, literally, returning to my roots - and the old skeletons still aren't settled. I didn't realize how much fake hair affected my self-perception. Bleach blonde? Life of the party. Red? A sexy wise-mouthed vixen. But now? I'm going to have to reclaim this mousiness and turn it out. I'm not Little Me any more, goddamn it. I call out people who shit on me instead of accepting it quietly. I'll hit back. I'll get myself out of harmful situations instead of slogging through. And I'll let my mouth do the speaking for me instead of chemical-process signifiers.