Monthly Archives: April 2012



In Japanese there is a specific word for death by drowning. 'Water death'. Those resourceful Japanese. Or he could be asleep. I'm not pushy about it...

I’ve been with thousands of men, again and again,
they promise the moon.
They give you Byron and Shelley then jump on your belly
and bust your balloon.
I’m so tired. Tired of playing the game.
Ain’t in a crying shame? That I’m … so…. tired….

Warning. Bitching ahead.

Letter to Self: Get Stuffed

Dear Self–

I’m tired. Like really really tired.
Dissatisfied. And cranky.

Are you about to unleash ye olde period again?
Because I feel like tossing us under a bus. (Again!)
I want a vacation from my life, from my kid, but most of all, from You (me?)
I’m tired of being neurotic, obsessive, compulsive, impulsive and us in general.
Can we dissolve our partnership?
Because my mind, my heart, my soul and my body makes me want to puke.
(Mainly my mind and mainly my body, but you’re all on my shit list.)

I’m sick of being confused. I am too old to be fucking confused.
People are confused when they’re 15. I have not been 15 for so fucking long, it’s a joke.

I hate the feeling of going in circles, taking one step forward and two back, or two left and then two right. Waking up and being in the same damn place.

I wish I could be satisfied, but that would involve perfection and perfection is not possible. I’m tired of being in love with things that are not real; of possessing the things that I think would make many people happy and not being satisfied nonetheless. Can I wake up not wanting shit anymore?

Do I have to become a Buddhist?
Do I have to be in a life-altering accident or find out I have a rare and deadly cancer of the butthole that is 99.9 percent fatal, to finally appreciate my remaining days?

I am not a materialistic person. My threads mainly still hail from the early 2000s; my phone could soon be placed into a tech museum as a stuffed specimen of an extinct species that once blazed a trail for modern communication technology. I don’t want a car, I don’t want a house, I don’t want a ‘perfect family’, I don’t want a fucking llama farm, I don’t want fame and bitches, (okay, I’d maybe take bitches, but fuck the fame)… I don’t want things, and yet I feel guilty, because I am wanting stuff all the time. What? What? God only knows, because I sure as hell don’t. For once, I understand my kid perfectly: He stands by my feet and cries–I pick him up. He squirms to be put down, and starts bawling as soon as his little bum is on the floor, reaching his hands out in a plaintive ‘lift me up’. That’s how I know he’s mine and not the postman’s! Indecision runs in the family!!

More and more, I am taken with the idea of fixing my outside to look like my inside, but what is inside, exactly? It’s chaotic. Might as well cut off my ear and sew it onto my ass for all the good that would do.

It’s so silly, like drowning in a bathtub of water.




The Couple That Cleans Together…

You have a friend like this? I think we ALL have a friend like this:

“You know I’m not the type of person who likes to tell people what to do, but you really need to stop going to that hair dresser. That haircut is horrible!”

“Now, it’s your business how you live your life, but when are you going to stop having a roommate? All my friends are asking if you guys are all sleeping together…”

“So, I’m only going to ask once and then I won’t mention it again: When was the last time you cleaned your bathroom? It’s a health hazard in there!”

Ok, so maybe she had something about this last thing. Cleaning our bathroom was a bi-annual event (generally performed for Thanksgiving and if someone important enough came over to shame us into having a clean bathroom.) For ourselves, there was no shame. The kitchen was always slightly pungent with a few stratas of abandoned cook-offs. The living room swam in art supplies, back issues of Vogue, video game controllers (are those things breeding??) and the Spirit of Takeout Past, Present and Future.

Now my friend wanted to know if we ever cleaned the bathroom. Us! Bachelors!

To tell this story properly, I have to tell another story. When I was a little kid, my mom, though a reasonably clean person herself, always had doubts about her own cleaning prowess.”You should see how clean Icu nagymama (my grandmother) kept her house!” she kept saying, whenever I asked her why we had to clean weekly. Weekly? I mean, really? Is that necessary? Nobody ever came over. “You should see how clean Icu nagymama kept her house…” she’d say though, right before she ordered me to go outside and sweep up the courtyard. Are you fucking kidding me? As I kid, sweeping OUTSIDE seemed absolutely daft, but weighing about as much as three sizable cats back then, it was much easier to beat me up persuade me to do something I didn’t want to do than perhaps it is today.

I remember pushing the dirt morosely with the broom tip from left to right and back left again thinking how horrible it must be to be a grown up and still be looking over your shoulder in fear of your mother vis-a-vis cleaning. When I’m grown up, I vowed, I’m not going to clean my house ever, and I ain’t going to feel guilty about it either. So hah!

Oh the promises we make to ourselves when we’re ten!

Flash forward a ridiculous amount of years and now I’m telling my friend to bugger off, because I’m not cleaning, my bathroom or anybody else’s for that matter, and if she has a problem with it, she can take her bodily wastes home and dispose of them in the cleanliness and comfort of comelier environments, for all I care.

But then, about two weeks ago, she came over after a long absence, stretched her legs in the living room.

“Did you hire a cleaning lady?” She asked, glaring around.

“Nope,” I said grandly. “We’ve started cleaning.”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the Schopenfags are growing up. About two months ago, okay, maybe only four weeks ago, we instituted a chore chart, the likes of which I haven’t seen since I lived back home with my mother. On it is written clearly each person’s task for the week, and I’m amazed to say that it seems to be working. 0_0 How did an unrepentant soap-dodger get into such a situation? I don’t quite remember, only that one night we were talking about the state of the apartment, and one finger pointed to another and next thing I knew, there was a chore chart hanging on the fridge and now nobody gets a wet butt and the gift of gonorrhea when they sit on our toilet seat.


Reading time!!

In other news: I’ve got a reading. Yes, me! My own reading, courtesy of the wonderfully nice Lisa Yarger, who cordially invited me to read from my book at one of my literature watering holes here in Munich, The Munich Readery.  Come one, come all, it’s this Saturday (April 21st) at 7 pm (and I’m sorry for the horribly short notice, but I’ve been so occupied and then Jesus’s death and all, you understand??) Anyway. my reading is at seven with finger-foods (read: sushi 0_0) to follow… J will be reading the boy part, I’ll be reading the girl (how romantic is that!?) Lisa is jumping in as the mother–and if the prospect of us doing voices can’t entice you, well, come for the free food! (Anyone who’s been to any number of readings knows that the free food at the end is the only really enjoyable part : D) But seriously, I won’t be taking attendance :3 so no sweat if you can’t make it, but if you can, I would love to see your smiling happyfaces at the Readery this Saturday!

Peace out, moofs ^^

Is Lincoln to Blame?

Da-yum, when is someone going to pay me 1,000,000 bucks to sit on the beach, get high and draw hentai? …..Not yet?

I wish I could blame this picture on an early morning visit from Lincoln, but no, this time, I’ll take full responsibility! For every tail! For all cat ears!!


Boys with Tails II

A friend asked for a picture. I was skeptical…

“I don’t do ‘finished’ stuff, you know this right?”

He said not finished was fine.

If possible, the drawing was to contain the following elements:
-another boy of equal or greater physical attractiveness
-them engaged in some way … (hopefully, an erotic way, not an I’m pouring you a glass of lemonade way)

I was like… ‘Hmm. Doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever done before, but I’ll give it a whirl :D”

Tails! Cat ears! Ruffled underpants! Tentacles… I threw those in gratis.

I drew another nice pic this weekend but alas, as nice as it is, it is not appropriate for WP ><

In other mews: We were in Berlin to visit the new addition to the family. I guess ::grumbles:: she was kind of cute. Not sure if she’s a Nazgul though, time will have to tell. Like with our baby, maybe we’ll start hearing of bodies lying in the streets of Berlin like empty husks… Ahh, we’ll whisper then knowingly. Another little Nazgul after all.

In other other mews: Starting some new anime series as soon as I’m done with this post. And I’m going to try to draw…. curly hair. 0_0. I don’t do curly hair, it scares me (to draw, that is, it’s fine on someone’s head) but a certain picture requires it…. Anyway, I’m rambling.

Hope you guys had a wonderful Easter ^^

A Nazgul Is Born

She might be a Nazgul. She might also just be a normal baby. To check, J and (–) and me are off to Berlin for the weekend. Oh, and here is a random picture for you in the meantime. Whoo, why not? Pretty pastel blue, for Easter.

This is Stav S., he is a beautiful Russian boy with very sad eyes. Bird skull in hair inspired by this lady's beautiful photography ^^

So I will be spending my weekend oohing and aaahing over a baby that may or may not have a conehead. (I hope she doesn’t. Paintblotch has basically taught me to distrust coneheaded peoples and I do have a pretty bad prejudice about them now.) Mingling with the inlaws. Keep me in your thoughts.

Sadly, (–) is too little yet to do anything kind of fun like egg dyeing or Easter egg finding, though he did get some nice Easter presents from my mom including (another!) talking animal.

Talking toys rant: You know, I have a love and hate relationship with those creepy talking toys. The kids love them, and they probably do help teach kids some vocab blah blah blah, but… they are so damn creepy. The newest addition to our talking toy menagerie is a dog. All its parts are labeled, and once you turn it on, the kid is encouraged to touch different parts of the dog’s body by this high-pitched sexless voice. [You see exactly where this is going??]

My kid likes this toy a lot, and I’ll be at my computer while he’s on the ground. I can hear the toy:

-Red heart!
-Touch my red heart!
-Touch my ear! Touch my foot!
-I love you!
-You’re my best friend!
-Don’t tell anyone…
-This is our secret!
-Touch my…

Me turning around. Wtf? My kid is smiling. Dog is staring at me with it’s creepy painted on smile, like ‘What? What did I say? I’m just teaching your kid the different parts of the body. Heh heh.’

God, I need to get more sleep.

Happy Easter, moofs. ^^

Thorn Collar, Lace Collar – Illu Frito

Or 'The Thumbsuckers' This is a picture for everyone who wants to return to the womb...

For the last two Illu Fritos, I was so unhappy with what I had drawn, I did not submit >< But this week, I am okay with this drawing, maybe. I sucked my thumb for a horribly long time. I won’t say how long. But I remember how amazingly comforting it was to suck my thumb. I wish I could go back there, to those times. Just pour the bathtub full of water and sit in it and suck your thumb when you’re scared or down…. Go back to the womb. The first picture I saw of my kid in the womb, he was sucking his thumb too… Too bad prolonged thumb sucking fucks up your teeth AND your thumb. (I learned this the hard way….)

But yeah, that is my submission for the prompt ‘Return’.

In other mews, the Baby Nazgul will be officially celebrating his first year tomorrow ^__^. Wow, can you believe it? One year with the little soul-eater. It’s gone by so fast. Let’s review his skillz, shall we? He can rage poop. He can parkour (In fact, he has successfully parkoured into the kitchen and off of both flights of stairs..) and he can almost walk. He can say ‘yes’ in Russian and ‘Change my diaper now or I’ll fucking kill you and your unborn children’ in Nazgul.He has already attempted his first french kiss with a man at the age of seven months, which is how I knew he was, indeed, my son.

Thank you to everyone who came to the unofficial birthday at Aunt Paintblotch’s…. and for all the presents and the baby bath soap I will be using while I sit in the bath tub and suck my thumb and read my lesbian zombie book be using to bathe the little curly brace. It was wonderful to see all you moofs. Have a great week and Happy April to all. <3