May 26, 2004
homesick
So yeah, I survived finals week, completing a life-size full-body self-portrait, a ten-page semiautobiographical short comic, and Speech and Public Speaking and most probably preserving my precious scholarship and with it my college attendance, although not necessarily my sanity.
And I packed up the room, stuffed it all in my car, swept and rearranged the room, and came back to Terabil.
The first night in the new house, I cried myself to sleep.
I miss Avalon so much, it hurts. Literally. Just driving around Terabil is incredibly depressing because it's not Avalon. In fact, driving around Terabil sucks even more because I'd be able to walk almost everywhere I felt like going in Avalon. Not so here, land of parking lots and strip malls and nothing to do.
Terabil is like Avalon drained of all its beauty and culture by a giant capitalist-developer vampire that leaves behind suburban strip-malled zombie husks in its wake. I read the editorial section of the newspaper and despair for this sad, pathetic excuse for a city populated by middle-class suburban hicks with a worldview consisting of their own collective hindquarters. This place is first on the Obliteration List when I take over the world.
I miss my school. I haven't been able to do anything artistic because I feel so lifeless and burned out here, whereas I always had at least one or two ideas even during the most stressful times back at school. I even had an idea for a short comic before I left that has fizzled into nothing by the sheer mind-numbing force of Terabil. Damn you, Terabil.
I actually started damning people to Terabil back at AIUA since it was the worst place I could think of to send them.
Yes, I hate this city. Is it noticeable? Good, it should be.
In other news, I also hate my mother, who waited about half a day after my return "home" before beginning to nag me about getting a job. Not because she needs to, considering that I would apply for a position shoveling manure if it got me out of the house. She also apparently expected me to accept a pink toothbrush without argument. Actually, she pretty much expects me to fall right back into the affable, passive, easily manipulated child role.
No, I will not use the pink toothbrush. No, I do not want your hairdresser to remove the blue from my hair. Yes, I would like another black tank top. No, I would not like the "sunbleached" tank top instead.
No, I will not paint a copy of an oil painting you ripped out of a home decor catalog. If you want art, go buy something from a gallery downtown from an actual artist who has actual bills to pay. If you want art from ME, don't dictate what it should look like. This defeats the purpose of my creating it.
Also, I am not a painter. I am a sequential art major. I plan to do comics. And I also plan to make a perfectly acceptable living doing so.
No, I will not work at Disney so you can get free tickets. That's animation majors, and Disney is run by rapacious corporate bastards anyway.
Yes, I bought these pants from the men's section. I will buy clothes from the hermaphrodite section if they fit. I realize that they may not fit your definition of "cute clothes." I couldn't care less anymore what you think I should and shouldn't wear, and I would tell you where you could shove your advice on broadening my horizons if your head weren't already firmly entrenched there.
And I will not cut the straps off the strappy pants. I bought those pants for the straps, dammit.
In summary, Mom, I am not a fucking three-year-old any more, so please refrain from treating me as if I still possess that level of self-awareness and independence, thank you so very fucking much.
Oh yes, and I have no Internet access in my new, smaller, uglier room, so my only uninterrupted, unsupervised Net time is after midnight, hence, the writing of this entry. I'm working on layouts and new content on the other computer to be uploaded once it is hooked up.
And I packed up the room, stuffed it all in my car, swept and rearranged the room, and came back to Terabil.
The first night in the new house, I cried myself to sleep.
I miss Avalon so much, it hurts. Literally. Just driving around Terabil is incredibly depressing because it's not Avalon. In fact, driving around Terabil sucks even more because I'd be able to walk almost everywhere I felt like going in Avalon. Not so here, land of parking lots and strip malls and nothing to do.
Terabil is like Avalon drained of all its beauty and culture by a giant capitalist-developer vampire that leaves behind suburban strip-malled zombie husks in its wake. I read the editorial section of the newspaper and despair for this sad, pathetic excuse for a city populated by middle-class suburban hicks with a worldview consisting of their own collective hindquarters. This place is first on the Obliteration List when I take over the world.
I miss my school. I haven't been able to do anything artistic because I feel so lifeless and burned out here, whereas I always had at least one or two ideas even during the most stressful times back at school. I even had an idea for a short comic before I left that has fizzled into nothing by the sheer mind-numbing force of Terabil. Damn you, Terabil.
I actually started damning people to Terabil back at AIUA since it was the worst place I could think of to send them.
Yes, I hate this city. Is it noticeable? Good, it should be.
In other news, I also hate my mother, who waited about half a day after my return "home" before beginning to nag me about getting a job. Not because she needs to, considering that I would apply for a position shoveling manure if it got me out of the house. She also apparently expected me to accept a pink toothbrush without argument. Actually, she pretty much expects me to fall right back into the affable, passive, easily manipulated child role.
No, I will not use the pink toothbrush. No, I do not want your hairdresser to remove the blue from my hair. Yes, I would like another black tank top. No, I would not like the "sunbleached" tank top instead.
No, I will not paint a copy of an oil painting you ripped out of a home decor catalog. If you want art, go buy something from a gallery downtown from an actual artist who has actual bills to pay. If you want art from ME, don't dictate what it should look like. This defeats the purpose of my creating it.
Also, I am not a painter. I am a sequential art major. I plan to do comics. And I also plan to make a perfectly acceptable living doing so.
No, I will not work at Disney so you can get free tickets. That's animation majors, and Disney is run by rapacious corporate bastards anyway.
Yes, I bought these pants from the men's section. I will buy clothes from the hermaphrodite section if they fit. I realize that they may not fit your definition of "cute clothes." I couldn't care less anymore what you think I should and shouldn't wear, and I would tell you where you could shove your advice on broadening my horizons if your head weren't already firmly entrenched there.
And I will not cut the straps off the strappy pants. I bought those pants for the straps, dammit.
In summary, Mom, I am not a fucking three-year-old any more, so please refrain from treating me as if I still possess that level of self-awareness and independence, thank you so very fucking much.
Oh yes, and I have no Internet access in my new, smaller, uglier room, so my only uninterrupted, unsupervised Net time is after midnight, hence, the writing of this entry. I'm working on layouts and new content on the other computer to be uploaded once it is hooked up.
# posted by Liadan @ 1:06 AM 
