Tag Archives: Illustration

Out Came the Sun…

…and dried up all the blood,
and the little tiny Nazgul came out to feed again….
(Fufu’s preferred version.)

I hope J doesn’t mind that I made his tail a little less luxurious than mine. Breakfast at our house… ^__^ I drew something cute!! J: But why are we all crying blood? Me: Because the food’s so good!!

That is a pic of us eating my kid’s favorite food. He loves egg on top of rice with furikake (the japanese flavor-MSG sprinkle thing?!) basically more than anything. Since he often gets little pimples (that he then picks into full-blown sores) the dragon in law has expressed worry. “You need to stop feeding him eggs! I’m telling you, those sores are a reaction to eggs!”

I can’t seem to explain to her that the original blemishes are usually very tiny–it’s the PICKING that causes the sores–and that if we stopped feeding him eggs, he would have only souls to eat. Not very nourishing.

Crazy, but it’s been three years of Fufu-meat. Little sack of farts turned three this last week o___o. He can (sort of) use the toilet now. He can talk! Behold, this perfectly intelligent conversation we had last month, at three in the morning!

Fufu (wakes me up): R, wake up. Nazgul is sad.
Me (groggy): What? What are you talking about? Why are you sad?
Him: Nazgul is sad. Nazgul needs to go to the Nazgul doctor.
Me: Go to the doctor? Nazzie, it’s three in the morning. The doctor is asleep. Why would you have to go to the doctor?
Him: Nazgul’s butt is broken.
Me: O___O

[I may have broken my ass two months ago and I may have not always suffered the most graciously and silently.... hence his phantom broken butt....]

But look at how resplendent he is!!

Little Nazgul with sores

Portrait of Jazzie. WIP. Ink. My kid is ALWAYS covered in sores, which is great, because I actually LIKE drawing sores…!  But look at how cute he is ^^ He loves strawberries. He calls them Jawberries. and Christmas tree is chemistry. It will make me so sad when he can enunciate properly….

And one last watercolor sketch of the Fufu... ^^

And one last watercolor sketch of the Fufu… ^^


It’s been a great three years, Jazzie, so happy belated third birthday. ^___^

May there be many more breakfasts with egg and broken asses and may you live
to be 106!!!!!!

-your loving Ryszbag


Inky Void

::sigh:: I was just saying today to J, ‘I’m resting on my laurels.’

What laurels? He asked. You may very well be asking yourself, dear Reader.

girls in space

Lonely Star – My kid is currently obsessed with space, so I drew octonauts in space!!!!!
Brown ink. ^__^ [PS: Is this pic done? Part of me wants to add more space debris or something... but I also like the clean fear in space.... hmmm.]

The laurels (more symbolic than actual triumphs) I am resting on are as follows:

1. The operation got done. (And I spend a lot of time staring at the results and feeling stupendously happy.)

2. My publisher finished my bigass book and responded that he is interested and will get the wheels turning now regards it. O___O (::hyperventilates and falls over::)

Book and chest. Chest and book. Two things that had been weighing on me like a hairy sack of strawberry ice cream all of 2013, and now, both are in some stage of resolution.

And that’s good…. that’s wonderful! But…these last two weeks, the inside of my brain’s felt like this:

We're the fuckin' animals: Coffee time with Mr. Bear, Fox Boy and Mink Boy.

We’re the fuckin’ animals: Coffee time with Mr. Bear, Fox Boy and Mink Boy. Black and brown and red ink.

Book three sits patiently in the poorly ventilated waiting room of my brain, reading back issues of People, drinking cup after cup of cool coffee and not giving a bleeding fuq. I don’t have discontent to kick me into gear–*I* have to kick myself into gear…

A new sketchbook and a block of enormous inkable paper and an entire bottle of walnut-colored ink AND a little octonaut turning three in two weeks!!

Things to do now: 1. get shit done on book 3. hire a clown. 4. teach my kid the Way of the Toilet…

music listen

Learn how to count, lala lalalalala


It’s pretty much accepted that it’s a bad idea to try to rekindle a relationship with an ex, but what about an ex friend? A friend you broke up with? Can you get back together with them?

This last month or two I’ve been trying to get back together with one of my closest friends and not making the best go of it. I just wish I could not be so intense ;__;

Now we got into a fight the other day, J + Nazgul + I are leaving for two weeks tomorrow, so I am sad that the fight has not been resolved. It is one of those where you avoid the person, because you really don’t know what to say. You avoid, and draw sores, eyes and slabs of meat instead….

On the back of an art block: The more nervous I am, the more meat and eyes I draw….

The operation was a success. (oil pastel on the back of a sketch block)

Tomorrow we’re packing the last of it and day after tomorrow, I’m getting on a one million hour flight with a toddler. Man, am I going to enjoy getting on that plane, with everyone staring at me eyes glassy with fear, and the whole aircraft pulsing with a soft monotone chant of please not by me please not by me please not by me person with baby please not by me >____>

If you never hear from me again, they probably flung us out of the escape hatch somewhere over Abu Dhabi. In that case, it was nice to know you guys!!


Happy Lucky V-Day

When I was in high school, I had a teacher who used to come in, click his heels in the air and grip the teacher-podium thingie while he grinned out at us with a big goofy grin. He’d say: I am so lucky to be standing here in front of you, doing a job I love. I am a lucky man.

Back then, I used to think, what the fuuu is he smoking and where can I get some?

Now I know… he was just high off life, because that’s exactly how I feel these days!

Nobody really knows what shit St. Valentine went through to become martyred... for all we know, he was covered in boils.

Lucky boy, because the better I feel, the nastier my pictures get. Nobody really knows what shit St. Valentine went through to become martyred… for all we know, he was covered in boils.St. Valentine + Boils

I miss those candy hearts that said things like 'fax me.'

I miss those candy hearts that said things like ‘fax me’ and ‘u sux.’

J says I’m obsessed with ‘Die Antwoord.’ And I am, because their chaotic songs are exactly how I feel right now:

I’m an upper!
(Dwankies get popped like a sucker.)
Baka, Baka! Yippe-kai-ayy motherfucker,
I’m a big deal, yo crazy money get thrown at me,
Now I’m having so much fun dat I can’t even go 2 sleep….
(Fatty boom boom)

Ok, so neither insane (nor mad nor wrathful) sums are getting thrown at me, but I’m having so much fun, I literally can’t go to sleep, like, I lie in bed thinking until five every morning yippe-kai-ayy motherfucker! I feel like I’m filled head to toe with magical guts and sparkles and if you make the slightest nick all of that sparklegut is going to fall right out…

Because my publisher is reading my book (right now even maybe? Even as I write these words?!? Making the decision if he wants to publish it or not, but whether or not, that takes me one step closer to getting it out there and that makes me feel like—)

My bf got out of jail today!!

If J ever goes to jail and he comes out, I greet him like thisssss...

If J ever goes to jail and he comes out, we say hello like thissssss…

But anyway, I am so pumped and psyched I cannot sleep, because my publisher is reading my book, because my boils are looking grosser than anyone else’s and because J and I and Nazgul are flying to Thailand next week and… and… and…

Ok, I need to calm down. ~___~ Just wanted to wish y’all a happy V-day, whatever that means for you personally, be it Happy Valentine’s–or if you’re someone who’s like fuck Valentine’s Day, long and fuck it hard, I wish you… a Happy Vagina, Happy Vas Deferens–Happy Victory Day!

Yay cuddling, yay!!

Happy Vector Day. I hope you spend it with someone nice.

<3 <3 <3

Ye Olde Art Swappe

Hey there readers ^___^

Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife 2. – long-haired boy and octopus (brown ink).
Okay okay, so you’ve always wanted to eat my sushi and own one of my tentacle pictures… the night of Dec. 12th is your chance! ~___~ This is the piece I am donating. Sorry for the horrible photo.

I’ll try to keep this one short and just say that while we are roasting our nuts over open fires and laughing all the way (hahaha) this Christmas season–across the world… all the way in the Philippines, there are literally millions of people who are in dire need after Typhoon Haiyan, and my good friend Paintblotch is trying to help them by organizing an art-swap on the 12th of December (this next Thursday.)

If you live here in Munich, I highly urge you to check it out. I saw some of the pieces that will be available today and they are seriously impressive. [Mine is the crappiest one, so sorry ;____;.] Paintings, drawings–for pouring Slurpees, there’s a friggin’ alabaster sculpture that’s been donated–a huge painting by my good friend W–all original work issued with certificates of authenticity.

This is your chance to get your hands on some valuable art AND help support the organization called ‘Doctors Without Borders‘ in the Philippines.

Here’s how it works:

1. Purchase a ticket here for either 50 or 100 euros (all proceeds will go to ‘Doctors Without Borders’).
2. Show up at the art swap on Thursday evening starting at 7pm and use your ticket to collect a piece of donated art from a Munich artist. Donated art will be divided into two categories, roughly based on size and medium. If you like what you got, hold on to it tight! If you don’t, try to sucker someone else out of their piece during the swap game.
3. Eat the sushi I will be making and chug the booze we will be providing! Mingle with local artists and shoppers before you mosey back out to Viktualienmarkt in search of more food and mulled wine. (The location is conveniently close to Isartor.)

If you don’t live in Munich, but would still like to donate money for the typhoon survivors, there is a link on the events page. I suspect you’ve probably made some Christmas donations already, but every little bit helps. Five dollars, ten dollars.

If you do live in Munich, seriously, get a ticket! Not only will you be helping some people in serious need, the piece of art you will be getting will be worth  more than the money you paid AND the sushi–and let’s not forget the isle of naked men… mmm, naked men.

Here’s a link again for anyone interested in attending or donating and thanks so much, moofs <3 You’re all great and I hope you have a wonderful holiday season.

A special thanks to W for his generous art donation and to Emmy Horstkamp for letting us use BCA Munich’s gallery for that evening (which is also her gallery’s opening night.)

2nd Time Around – Chapter I.

The writing of a thousand pages starts with a single chicken nugget.
-Abraham Lincoln


‘Do people with blue eyes like…. even have a soul?’ Probably my favorite question ever asked me by a Japanese person. It’s like, heck should I know, I don’t have blue eyes? >___>

Warning: Mucho not orderly post.

Once a long time ago when I was still making sushi, I got really plastered at the restaurant Christmas party, so of course I blacked out and didn’t remember anything of shenanigans that ensued. According to J, on the tram-way home, I announced I was sick and forced him to get off with me and we walked the several remaining kilometers in subzero temperatures rivaling the winds of Satan’s Lair. At some point, I supposedly got so belligerent about the cold, I tried to walk up to any foreign door and open it. J had to dissuade me–don’t open that, he said, that’s not our house. But I’m so cold! I whined. (Supposedly. I’m not much of a whiner, so I question the reliability of the narrator here.) ‘If we can’t open those doors, just open something! I’m so cold, I don’t care what you open, just open it!! Just open anything!’ Poor hapless J, in the middle of the night, freezing his ass off and stuck with a wasted wanker, proceeded to take off my backpack and open it at me. ‘Look,’ he said with the patience of a thousand Ghandis. ‘I opened this. It’s open.’ Supposedly, that calmed me enough that I was able to walk the rest of the way drama free.

The next morning when he relayed all this to me I was like ‘Jesus Christ, sounds like I was drunk as fuck. How did we even make it home?!?’

J: One step at a time…

One step at a time…

You know, I always thought what was hard was simply doing something. You do the thing, the first time it’s hard, but then after that, since you know how to do it,  it’s okay. The realization slowly dawning in me of late though is that actually, what may be the hardest is not just doing something…

…but doing it AGAIN.

The first time, you don’t know any better. You bound into the experience bright eyed and ready for anything, like a Husky puppy plunging into a bank of snow.

Learn a language?
Write a book?
Have a kid?

Fuck it, why not? I’ll try anything once!

The second time, you’re like a cat on ice. Oh no. Oh no no no no NO, I DID this shit once and I waded through to the other side, and yes. Hooray and yippee—but could I do it again? Do I want to?

My mom: When are you going to have another kid?
My mom-in-law: When are you going to have another kid?
Me: When Santy Claus gives me a one hour private lap-dance, that’s when!

Honestly, when I see people on the train with more than one child, I’m like O_O. From what reservoir of Voldemort magic did you dredge the strength to do all that again, like….. DON’T YOU REMEMBER?! (Also what I think about anyone who has done more than one major project…..) But of course, it’s not that we don’t remember…

I have started my second graphic novel and while on the one hand, it is wonderful to have this whole body of past mistakes I do not have to make again…. let’s just say, I’ve been listening to a lot of Eminem to stay pumped.

Let me be clear, I hate misogyny and homophobia, but right now what I need most in the world after an unlimited supply of hugs and hotpockets and black coffiee and blacker ink is for someone to yell ‘get the fuck off your punk ass pussy bitch ass and grab a pencil’–to a catchy beat. Sometimes, I play good cop bad cop with Eminem and 2pac, and when Eminem gets too harsh, I put on something like ‘Changes’ or ‘Keep Ya Head Up’, which always makes me choke up (I swear, over the years, I have heard those two songs hundreds of times and my throat still closes when I hear them…) I think, Fuck… these people (and of course many many others) used their raps to change their own lives–and they made successful albums again and again and again. Not every song of theirs is great, and some albums are better than others, but they had the fortitude to go back at it when they could have rested on their laurels and I find that incredibly inspiring. They had their negative distractions (demons) and positive distractions (family) and they did it again.

Art and writing is my therapy, so what to do when you need therapy about your therapy? I go to J.

‘I don’t think I can do this again,’ I say to him as I lay face up on our bed with my eyeballs sweating.

You know those people who are disgustingly good at everything they do and there are all these careers you could envision them being really successful at (besides the career they already have and are successful at?) Meanwhile, you’re shining bright like a potato? J is one of those people, and not only could he be a smashing masseuse or male prostitute, he’d make a damn good therapist too (and if he combined them, oh my god, what a trifecta, therapy while you get a massage and then a happy ending?! He’d make a motherloving KILLING.)

So anyway, I was staring at the ceiling and he was being my personal pro bono therapist and he gave me some wonderful advice which was: Don’t think of it as a whole project. Treat each chapter as it’s own project. That way, when you are done with one chapter, you can consider yourself ‘done’ for a while and do something else, if you need to….

It’s too overwhelming to walk the whole six kilometers home drunk, so just walk it home one step at a time. One chapter at a time.

I broke it down further, I started to think of it in terms of pages. In terms of panels. In terms of single lines and drops of ink. One after another. After another.

It’s me
My honesty’s brutal
But it’s honestly futile if I don’t utilize
What I do though for good
At least once in a while so I wanna make sure
Somewhere in this chicken scratch I scribble and doodle
Enough rhymes to
Maybe try to help get some people through tough times
But I gotta keep a few punchlines
Just in case cause even you unsigned
Rappers are hungry looking at me like it’s lunchtime
- Rap God Eminem

The entirety of the song ‘Keep Ya Head Up’ by Tupac

Sandwiched between the wisdom of guardian angels J, Eminem and Tupac, how can anyone go wrong??

They can’t! And thanks to them, I have finished my first chapter…! ::dances::

You two, dear reader, if you’re out there struggling with something big, I encourage you to chunk it up, destroy the pieces, murder the verses one by one!

[So sorry though, mom, I am still not having another kid.... >___>]

Dear Friend II

So la-da-dee-da-deee, we like to pardeeee…
Dancin’ with Molly, doin’ whatever we wa-a-aaaaaant….
This is our house, these are our rules…
And we can’t stop… and we won’t stop!!
(-Bastille cover of ‘Can’t Stop’)

death and all

Moleskine sketch – Death and all his friends. [I started out drawing a bunch of fucked up heads and then realized they correspond to the things I am scared of, including depression, suicide, self-harm, vomiting, negative body image and weird pieces of meat. Make it big to appreciate all the detail >___>)

Dear Friend,

I could tell you how I feel, or maybe just show you?

A gallery–[warning: some self-harm in the following pictures]

the cutters red st seb new color detailconnie red smallrough night moleskinsafewordjon crophyenatumblr_mtwm896nri1rn4weno1_500

People talk about their exes, the lovers and bfs and efs and gfs and people who have screwed them up–rarely do people mention breaking up with friends. You don’t break up with a friend; you move, or grow apart, or stop having time for each other. It is not an eruption, rather an imperceptible but gradual tectonic shift in life situations that usually erodes friendships. Destroy being too strong of a word. However, you and I broke up. There was shouting, tears, angry words. Cold, long, unbreakable silence. And when I made new friends who seemed like they could be who you had been to me, I annoyed them by mentioning you too much, exactly as someone annoys a current partner by talking too favorably or too often of an old one.

The kicker about losing a friend you’ve had from childhood is that the vernacular of your friendship is so entrenched, it seemed at times I couldn’t go a single day without seeing SOMETHING that reminded me of you. A cup of coffee, a certain star we’d crushed on, a person with curly black hair… You were and continue to be reactivated in my memory through sight, sound, touch, taste and smell–the places we walked, jokes we made, foods we ate, songs we heard, words we used. Like Proust and his fucking madeleine dipped in tea. A tiny trigger could put me in a mood… and now here you were after what… two years? Three now?

On the phone.

“Hello?’ you said and I said ‘hello?’ about two times more than necessary, as if I didn’t recognize your voice, but yeah right. Right? You had me at ‘hel’ ~_~ I knew it had to be you.

It’s funny, I’ve fantasized about this conversation for literally years. I wondered  what it would be like, if you would ever want to talk to me again, if I would be happy the day you finally came around; if I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, or if we truly wouldn’t talk and at some point in the far future one of us would hear from a friend of a friend of a friend, ‘oh yeah, xxx? They died last month…’

That sounds melodramatic, but humans DO actually die.
Right? We are mortal??
Not just like in dem books.

I’ve spent this last month under a lot of anxiety. I’m going through a strange period of my life right now. I can’t say it is necessary bad. Just difficult. Like Akagi said, the sand at the bottom of Hell is magical sand.

A lot of the pics I’ve drawn lately have been violent, disturbing or sad. A lot of them have to do with self-harm and a feeling of doubt, exactly what you have expressed to me on the phone. I wondered while I was drawing if these pics had any value, if they were too emotional or personal to mean anything to someone other than myself. In other words, if I was wasting my time.

It’s extremely serendipitous that just as I was thinking these thoughts you called. And I heard in your voice not the desire even to be loved, though of course, everyone wants to be loved. I heard the desire to have something that demanded that you throw yourself into it, that you live, not just exist.

I won’t talk about the stuff you said, of course, all of that is confidential and no person’s business, but I will say thank you for calling me again and making me feel like I am doing something right.  You managed to remind me of the important thing–that when you create anything, you are living. As you said, tasting life. And so long as you are doing that, it is impossible to be wasting your time.

“I’m sick of this John Greene generation–sadness is not romantic, nobody is going to come kiss your scars or discover you reading Bukowski in a bookshop. You’ve got to be your own hero.” -rough paraphrase of some internet quote

I actually find it pretty easy to find people who will kiss the scars, it’s just that the kisses don’t make them go away. The antidote to sadness is not always love. Often, sadness is the overwhelming ache to be useful, to be productive, or to find satisfying expression, and no, you cannot be your own hero, because you don’t live in a vacuum. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a prince or a princess or a princez on a white horse who drags you out of your rut, but you need a relationship and productive dialogue with something.

Art will not kiss your scars, but on the other hand, you can come to it again and again and never impose upon it, never fear that maybe this time your complaining and pus and tears will drive it away.  You made me realize I am very lucky and I hope I can help you too at some point in the near future, dear friend.

It was really good to hear from you. <3

Dura Lex Sed Lex

Dura lex sed lex.
The law is harsh, but it is the law. [work in prog, but it fits]

Only ten more days or so and I’ll be going to the States to participate in the ALAN convention for adolescent books. Excited and nervous and…

About a month ago, I got an email from a lady from ALAN to talk about my panel and what kind of questions will be asked etc. and if I was okay with the introduction for me and then as an ending note to the email, she said something to the effect of, ‘now this is a little bit awkward, but you have an unusual name, so I wasn’t sure if you’re male or female. On your Goodreads profile, it says you are male and I have assumed that to be correct. Please correct me if otherwise…’ And I sat there and just kind of stared at the email for a while, because honestly I’d never had the questions before and now what do I say?

Yes, that is correct.

No, that is not correct.

Actually, it’s sort of correct.


(My life needs a ‘pass’ button. Programmers I know? Please? Program the pass button?)

In the end, I wrote something like, ‘yes that’s correct, I’m trans.’

It was weird to write that. I’m not sure I’d ever written that about myself before. I suppose it had never come up. Either it didn’t come up for me or it didn’t come up for them, because times in my life it mattered very much and other times it didn’t at all, or it was so obvious even to myself what it was.

My good friend: Oh jesus, you told her you’re trans, what if now everyone thinks you’re trans because of this? And I told her, what if they do? It’s the truth.

You know, when I was growing up, I didn’t want to be a boy or a girl, I wanted to be a cat. I remember we were walking on the streets of Budapest and my mom ran into her old flame (who incidentally looks like Keanu Reeves, Lord Have Mercy.) And she, having not seen him in years, trying to look as good as she could introduced me and then she said, darling, why don’t you say hello to Peter? So I nodded and said:

“Meow! Mrowwwww!”

:mother buries head in hands::

::old flame gets an expression like god DAMN am I happy I didn’t toss my hotdog down that hallway::

I remember looking at porn magazines in the magazine stalls (they had them out, not really hidden either) and the old lady would shoo me away, stop looking at those, you filthy little boy! It was weirdly humiliating and satisfying.

When I was a teenager, I talked about cutting certain parts of my body off when I became an adult. I didn’t know you could actually do this yet, but it seemed like a gold idea to me and everyone thought I was just saying weird radical shit. But I think about that still. I look in the mirror and I think if I had the money, and if it wouldn’t absolutely kill my mom, I would go in today and say cut this please and add this please and here is my money and thank you very much.

The thing is though that even amongst trans peoples everyone is generally in a big rush to get somewhere. “I’m a boy but I want to be a girl; I’m a girl but I want to be a boy,” Oh, so when will you start taking hormones? Me: Probably never? There is nowhere to take hormones TO. There is no destination, only a feeling that neither zero or one is what I am and when I think about am I a man or a woman, saying either feels like a lie. It’s like, no. My answer is no.

I draw like a girl and I X like a boy and I love like a cat and I wear clothes like a woman, but only because I think that makes me look better, because I’m silly and vain like that, but it feels like a costume. Platform shoes and pants tight enough to tell my religion and this perverse joy in thinking, I fooled you. This is a costume and it’s a lie.

Clothing. This goes way back. You know holidays like Halloween and Carnival, where you dress up in a costume? And incidentally, a lot of guys will dress up as women? The whole purpose of these ‘dress-up’ holidays started because of sumptuary laws designed to regulate what type of clothing people could wear. Essentially, in many societies and through much of history, people have not been allowed to dress counter to their gender/religion/social status, it was considered subversive, but on these special festival days in the year, those rules were relaxed—you could be a prince if you were a peasant and a woman if you were a man.

Then women started cutting their hair short and wearing pants and a few decades later Katharine Hepburn and her pantsuits and all of that was again considered undermining men who are in Power and women shouldn’t be trying to grab a piece of that pie, but now at the turn of this century, more and more teenage boys want to be cute and wear makeup and female clothing and grab a piece of the Cutie Pie Power girls have always had. You have more little boys being allowed to play with dolls and people are wringing their hands and oh this is a sign of the End and what I want to know is: When will it stop being shameful to be a girl or to want to be a girl? When?

I had a conversation about this with a good friend not that long ago. He was commenting on an earlier post where I said I had put my kid into a dress. He didn’t like it, he said it was pushing my agenda on the kid… and I said, what agenda? The one sex isn’t better than another sex agenda? Because I don’t see anybody putting little girls into pants being accused of pushing agendas on little girls. Because being a male is still better somehow.

Now I want to be a good mother, father, whatever the fuck. And I honestly DON’T believe in pre-emotively confusing kids, because I feel many people are truly happy in a gender box and totally satisfied and there is nothing wrong with that. And if my kid wants to play football, have a crew-cut, play with firetrucks boy stereotypes ad museum aha, that’s cool. Whatever. But it’s very hard to subscribe to this whole idea when 1. I don’t believe being either gender has any more or less worth than the other and 2. I spend literally a week vacillating as to what I should respond when a woman asks me the simple question, are you a man or are you a woman?

I want to be eight again and write her back ‘meow meow’.

There, I said it.

My sex is cat.


PS: If someone who does feel strongly about this but on the opposite side of my opinion happens to stumble upon this post, could you do me a favor and leave a comment as to why you believe it IS important that clothing and certain behaviors remain gender restricted? I am dying to hear an educated opinion or have a conversation about it.

Further reading, thank you, Paintblotch.

Stendhal Syndrome

Saint Sebastian is the patron saint of many things, including the plague, beauty and snow. ^__^ I drew this pic a while ago, but it fit today…

Stendhal syndrome is a psychosomatic illness that causes rapid heartbeat, dizziness, fainting, confusion and even hallucinations when an individual is exposed to art [...]. The term can also be used to describe a similar reaction to a surfeit of choice in other circumstances, e.g. when confronted with immense beauty in the natural world[From Wikipedia, bold added by yt.]

Sounds a little bullshitty, huh? But it’s real. 0_0

You know that classic image of a snowflake that you never see in real life? This one:

Well, today, it snowed in Munich (what the crap, right? End of October and snow, hello??)  but anyway, it was snowing with fair intensity and J and I were out for Family Sunday Lunch with the Nazgul (during the snow, he levels up to a Snow Nazgul) and as we were going up the stairs to get out of the subway, J says to me, oh wow, there’s this perfect snow-crystal in your hair.

Me thinking, oh okay, that’s nice, whatever.

We keep walking, but a minute or so outside, I looked down randomly at the Nazgul’s head and lo, just like J had said, there, wonderfully contrasted against a dark back-ground of nut brown Nazgul hair was nestled a pristine snow flake and it was so lacy and beautiful with the clean five spokes and the little blades of ice furry on each spoke, crystal-crisp. Honestly, any snowflake I’d ever seen before had been a homely misshapen blob making me wonder where that iconic snow-flake had even come from but no, here one was, so unbelievable, so clean, so innocent, so fresh, so complex, so simple, so peerless, symmetrical and blameless–

And then it died.

And then I looked over and on J’s hair were more… Every second, more were falling, two of them, three of them, not all of them had the perfect snowflake shape, but the ones that did, sweet Mary in Heaven, with exquisitely formed five branches, six branches, tiny blades curving off the branches, oh my fucking god, I shouted, they’re  all over… look at that! I started laughing hysterically, waving my arms.

J: Dude, you’re kind of freaking out.

Me: But look at that, fuuuuuck, like how can it be so perfect, like I thought that whole snowflake thing was some kind of meteorological mythos, or something you could only see with a microscope…. there’s more! Oh jesus!! Look at that one…. ahahahaha, oh it’s so beautiful… oh my god, I can’t take it anymore, ahahahahahaha, no no no, you have to stop falling, I can’t take it anymore, ahhhgalksjdfoiawe ijsodfj sdjfklsjfasdfjkl.509303958′

The tears were welling up, okay, not in my eyes, but somewhere and I felt like laughing and crying really–I wish you could have seen it, moofs, they really were so spectacular.

Looks like it’s the start of winter. ~_~

People, you NEEEEED to check out this video. Skip the first 30 seconds or so for maximum Stendhal Syndrome, you won’t regret it.

This Is How To Be a Heartbreaker

[AKA cute brunette interrupts hot gay gang bang in the shower. Watch the video here. No, this is not dirty... it's a music video. ~_~]


Teen Idle – I want to be a virgin pure, a 24 cent cherry whore*, I want back my virginity so I can feel infinity….. (N.L. <3)

Dear Marina Diamandis,

I realize you will never read this so I can say whatever the hell I want and what I want to say is that I think your music is ultra. Super. Amazing! I am a tremendous fan. It’s like innocently popping a panty colored gum ball and finding a spike inside. (Okay, so that actually sounds massively unpleasant, but you know… metaphorically). Oh well, words seem to have failed me, so I have drawn (!) in pictures (!!) some of my favorite songs from you dear Marina, securing membership in the rank and file of your no doubt hoards of creepy fans. But in all earnestness, I can sketch for hours to your songs and I hope for you every success and happiness and for us more videos with underwear models, please!

As for you, dear readers, I have made many embarrassing posts over the almost two years that I’ve been the lord and master of this blog but this posting of fan-art for one of my pop-idols might just be up there in the top five most what the fuck am I really publishing this? But I am.

State of Dreaming – I live my life inside a dream, only waking when I sleep, my life is a play…. (A.D.)

Buy the Stars - ‘All my life I’ve been so lonely, all in the name of being holy, still you like to think you know me… you keep buying stars.’ (B.E.)

All right. Nothing more to see here, moofs. Big kisses to you and to you, Marina!

Get a copy of the excellent album Electra Heart here.

*24 cent cherry whore. Do you ever have it where the lyrics you thought were the right ones end up being in your humble opinion cooler than the actual lyrics? I was sad when I found out she really sings ’21st century whore’ there, having thought before, wow, not a 23, not a 25, but a 24 cent cherry whore, now that is some kind of vague sounding nasty right there…