#HOW WILL I SURVIVE WITHOUT MY DAILY DOSE OF DRAWING THE SAME LITTLE GUYS

[brainjuicezz]

MY DRAWING TABLET,,, ITS BROKKEN

IM AT ME FUCKIGN LIMIT

[postpunkpontypandyphantomthief]

6th Comedy Monologue

“So folks, that whole Brexit rubbish is finally over isn’t it?”

“I know, some of us could see it coming and Teresa May looks like the spitting image

of the stepmother from Cinderella

how come nobody has noticed that yet?

we all have politicians we don’t like don’t we?

at times like this, I have to remind myself Teresa May is a very well liked woman

but then I remember back in the day Margaret Thatcher was also a very well liked woman

don’t you think she and Teresa may are quite similar?

well this is how she’d treat a political problem

*attempts impersonation*

“what’s that? ok men I did you to do this and then this and then this and this”

whereas Teresa may would handle the situation like…

*attempts impersonation*

what’s this? oh leave it for a few months

but the main thing is they both hate poor people so who cares what they think

I actually sort of understand why people like Jeremy Corbyn but I had written that previous gag back in late June of last year, speaking of outdated gags

Pirates were the communists and socialists of the 17th century

they wanted money, disagreed with colonialism and didn’t care what the government thought of them

like with communists they were accepting and inclusive but they wanted gold

the pirates accepted many on their ship they allowed homosexuality, they allowed women in strong roles  there were great times had on the high seas

even with the loot, they got they’d share it evenly what other power was involved with being inclusive with most things except money Oh Yeah! the communists

Yes, Yes we’ll handle it we’ll accept you but give us all your money

communism is a good concept but in the end, people get greedy for the money

like with pirates

we’ll accept you matey but give us some gold

however they didn’t agree about the government, they had their own independent pirate crews and disagreed with colonialism and capitalism

kind of like some of us, I think

we criticize politics, we like to party and we accept most people except colonialists …and capitalists...

Oh well, at least there’s been good music with Marina and the diamonds, Ariana Grande and the 1975

We, humans, love music

which makes me think about bands related to Homosapians

in the 60s we had the Monkees good band good name

and now we have Arctic Monkeys, Gorillaz, Rang a Tang and Apes

what about the lesser known homosapian types

Chimpanzees and Baboons

if music existed in Planet of the Apes

the Kate Bush hit Babooshka would be about a

monkey looking for love after getting his heart broken seeing his wife cheat on him with an older mandrill

only to fall in love again with who he’d call his baboonska

Animals are interesting creatures whether they are made of glass, made of 1960s haircuts or made of the first songs of a math rock band

Another good thing about music and animals is that Roger Taylor is going to help us save the bees

Thinking bee! Thinking queen! thinking bee! Thinking queen!

Speaking of which there’s been a whole glam rock/synthpop revival going on

And I love that

although as a kid I watched media from all sorts of different decades

While they watched Jersey Shore and Love Island I was watching Disney and CBBC sitcoms mixed with Japanese cartoons and shows from years before like Jem and the holograms, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and the original my little pony series.

I would also watch funnybones, the original noody series from a VHS I “borrowed” from my neighbours, as well as the Muppet show and some classic cinema.

I think it’s amazing that this revival is happening it’s like the 60s,70s,80s,90s and early 2000s are all going on at the same time.

Revolutionary anarchic protests, Androgynous rockers, Neon colours, post-punk indie shows, peculiar fashion trends and reality shows as well as the cybernetic future beyond

But I’m also cold and angry about how this is happening because on the other hand, there are things carried over from previous decades that shouldn’t still be around...fascists in positions of power, nonces in the entertainment industry, Threat of a nuclear war, low economy, Jamie Oliver, Piers Morgan, Death, Pollution,Misogyny,Misandry,Sexism,Racism and White Supremacy

I could list more, but I can’t think at the moment I’m focusing on my work while morons on Twitter and Tumblr are yabbering on about vegan sausage rolls.

I’ve never tried Greggs before but I’m sure the vegans and vegetarians are happy that a mainstream chain like Greggs has made a product catered specifically for them, whereas before if you asked for a “vegan option” at a restaurant the waiter would scratch their neck.

However not all restaurants are like this,having to work overtime dealing with angry parents,screaming children and the odd nazi at Mcdonalds is not an easy task,yet so many waiters and workers across the world are able to somehow keep those businesses afloat,you guys, girls and comrades don’t get enough credit,you should be paid more,no wonder so many mainstream restaurants are having strikes or running out of food and people are either going to more independently funded places or ordering online to get their daily dose of fast fried convenience.

and while I would be interested in trying a vegetarian diet,It would be hard for me to give up eating chicken that quickly but I don’t really eat meat that often,and before you say anything as long as cannibals don’t use their choice of food in a dangerous way they’re ok with me, it’s no different to when our prehistoric ancestors had to hunt to find food in order to survive,some people still have to do that,it’s sad...it really is,while Christianity isn’t something I believe in anymore, it did say in the bible that Jesus shared his bread and food with his people,and I think some of us should start doing that,and if you already do whether it’s a snack you have or leaving out leftover food from your side takeaway business, that’s brilliant your making more people happy and your allowing more people to enjoy food and to have access to that basic human necessity that we all should be able to have to access to.

Sharing is another primary school lesson it feels like half of humanity has forgotten about outside of basic decency and kindness, but I’m probably not the one to talk about that since I was called “Rude” for most of my life.

there’s a big difference between telling someone they’re a plonker and making someone more aware of how they can improve themselves as a person.

Most of us all have flaws, most of us have had toxic moments,

we’ve all at times had moments where we’ve said something wrong that we didn’t mean,

or times where our cowardliness has accidentally caused misunderstandings and drama

or times where we didn’t intend to sound hurtful but that’s how it came across, or times where we’ve blindly followed toxic people, imitating their actions without meaning to or just generally times where we’ve been ignorant little eijjits.

Even people some would say were flawless had flaws or problematic aspects about them

David Bowie wasn’t too nice to his wife Angie in later years, Graham Lineman and Robert Webb are transphobic, Rowan Atkinson supports Boris Johnson’s “so-called” jokes and Ricky Gervais doesn’t like hearing people with different opinions than him.

Overthinking however can exaggerate this, overthinking can take that one time you were a bit rude as a child and that problematic “fandom” phase you had as a preteen and make you feel like your worst person in the world.

Your not, but most of us have had moments,there’s also the “not like other girls/boys phase” sometimes it’s just a light-hearted comparison drawing or blog post taken out of context other times it’s the grown-up equivalent of saying “I like this thing over your other thing that means I’m better than you”

Considering my at times cold thoughts it’s weird that I’m the person of all people telling you this

It’s perfectly ok to be prideful and narcissistic just don’t be so arrogant that you forget about your morals and the people that you're close to, but if at times because of mental health you question your levels of empathy, sympathy and compassion that’s ok too, your voices deserve to be heard, and there is help available you can find it through helplines, organizations or even your own comrades.

Outside of all the twits in this horrid fishbowl of a world, there are also millions of very kind nice people, I don’t know where I’d be now without my comrades

The offline pals who are like my sunshine because they brighten up my day,the old secondary school friends that made me feel less alone,the online people who I can vent to, converse with and joke with,the bloggers from years ago that I still sometimes keep in touch with and the creators who through their work in Media, Theatre and the Arts were able to encourage me to keep going, keep working, keep creating.

I think your all lovely and beautiful and creative human beings, no matter what identity you are, what music genre you listen to or what topping you prefer on your pizza

I will most likely adore you and if I haven’t it’s probably because I haven’t met you yet

You are one biscuit of cells, on this fishbowl planet, your mind is a land of wonder and your body is the garden surrounding it, take care of yourself like how you take care of your garden, your pets or the fictional characters you write about.

Your future might not be the future you expect, but it’s one you’ll enjoy.

if you are doing something you love which harms nobody, be as happy and passionate about it as you like

you are a person who deserves the world

Don’t push yourself too hard, if you know you’re doing a good job keep at it, don’t stress yourself too hard, but remember not to procrastinate, your mental health is important, some people might not understand all of the issues you’re going through, but you can make it out alive.

You're, not a number or statistic you're a person, your a beautiful, Kind, incredible, wise person

spread some love and don’t forget what the late Freddie Mercury said,

Keep yourself Alive!

[meadowhilley]

it’s back

Today, my friends, is World Cancer Day. How exactly does one celebrate such an occasion, you wonder? That’s actually what I’m writing to find out. For starters it seems like a fitting moment to break my nearly year-long silence and tell you It’s back.

Not the cancer—I’m still “free,” as far as anyone can tell. No, what’s back with a vengeance is the sensation of living with an ugly and insidious thing growing inside me. The Get-It-The-Fuck-Out-Of-Me urgency that two and a half years ago made me drop everything, fall into a blue vinyl chair, and start blogging straight through my chemo infusions.

I still can’t explain by what internal mechanism this revelation about my compromised physical state triggered a visceral awareness that I’d been living with a different sort of malignancy for decades—a tangled knot of repressed emotion growing more potent and far-reaching as I happily went about the manic business of being a working mom. Or how I understood that my ability to heal bodily was predicated on my willingness to undergo a mental purge. Or how I knew with absolute certainty what I needed to do, even in those foggy predawn moments before the diagnosis had fully resolved into a clear picture of what awaited me in the days and months ahead.

Whether it was some atavistic survival instinct that kicked in or what they (dismissively) chalk up to “women’s intuition,” whether it was divine inspiration or something closer to unhinged delusion, at the very moment I received The Bad News I found myself in A State of Grace, like in a primal garden scintillating with dew where knowledge hangs low on the branch, hungry for the right mouth.

Glutton that I am, I bit. And instantly I came to understand that my body was a book I’d been writing for years without ever stopping to read it. At the center of my story was this malignant enigma, a living organism pregnant with meaning whose tendrils reached greedily through the space-time of my inner landscape, looking to occupy all my vital sites.

Stopping its spread and reversing the cancer’s insidious creep was the obvious goal of our immediate coordinated response. But as my three doctors each took up their weapons—poison, blade, and fire—I lay low like a meadow-turned-battlefield, bracing myself for the onslaught and devising an alternate plan, knowing that the only way to truly best this beastly part of me that fed on darkness was to draw it out, into the light.

So I painted my face. Obviously. Spent a week wearing only dresses. Naturally. Loitered seductively at the mouth of what I guessed might be my deepest emotional cavern. Patiently. Until one day, in the small round mirror of my compact case, I glimpsed a dark shade emerging against a background of shadow. Taking a sultry step forward in my red two-inch heels, I watched discretely as it advanced with predatory appetite, hypnotized by the allure of an easy meal. And at the very moment it crouched to pounce, I turned to face my Beast-Me.

Go ahead, I told my cancerous self, feeling beautiful for once and more powerful than ever. Show me how ugly I am inside. You will not be the first.

My plan wasn’t particularly well-formed. I was totally winging it, to be honest. With hindsight though it’s possible to list the major steps of my cancer-fighting campaign as:

1. Perform strength to psych myself up for the encounter.

2. Position myself as bait.

3. Coax the unknown threat out of hiding.

4. Subject it to intense examination.

5. Force it to reveal its origins.

6. Love the thing to death.

All on my terms, in a place where I felt safe and strong and well supported.

In other words, I would write the cancer out of me.

Out, like, in the open. Words confided to a private journal were not going cut it. An invasive species so entrenched would have to be pulled up by the roots into the glaring light of day and subjected to full exposure. This pathogen and its attending pathos should be left to shrivel and wilt under public scrutiny, I understood, until having lost all potency conferred by me, their host, they would reveal their true, pathetic nature and leave me whole.

If you’re not an exhibitionist by nature, writing publicly about your intimate past and present is highly ill-advised. Maybe you’re someone who cares about what people think of you. Or maybe you have a family to protect, a job you’d like to keep, or competing interests and hobbies. In my case, all of these inhibiting factors were compounded by the muzzling effect of four hundred years of injustice perpetrated by the West, which we have systematically justified by painting the Other as radically different—a threat to be mastered, a contagion to be contained.

How could I possibly talk about my challenging 13-year relationship with my African ex-husband, who was also a Muslim, without perpetuating these longstanding stereotypes and adding fuel to the fire? How could I tell my story without doing more harm than good? Fully aware of the risk that my experience would be generalized and my words misinterpreted, I felt compelled to write all the same. Common sense and fear, I came to feel, were my greatest enemies. To build a bridge, you’ve got to reach dangerously across the gaping abyss.

All this to say that hitting “Post” was never a mindless gesture for me. It required a force of will that ran counter to reason, and caution, and instinct.

Announcing that I had cancer in a Facebook status update was admittedly a shameless bid for your attention, like dancing carelessly on a mountain ledge. But I wouldn’t have sought your attention if I didn’t think it was absolutely vital to my healing. You, dear friends, were the gentle sunlight that scorched my disease better than a daily dose of photon rays at +$3,000 a pop x 25 sizzling pops. It was because you agreed to bear witness to my self-designed form of treatment by reading me as I attempted to decipher the book of my body that I got better. You did that. Each one of you made a difference. And it didn’t cost us anything but time.

So now it’s back. That oh-shit-here-we-go-again feeling, like there’s some creature dragging its claws through my gut from the inside. Only this time I’m even more reluctant to write publicly. For one, I’ve been writing privately, trying to build a bigger bridge, in silence, and that jealous pursuit demands all the attention I can afford to give it.

But, UGH. The world changed two weeks ago just as it did two years back with the diagnosis, and ten years before that when my first marriage ended: abruptly, dramatically, alarmingly. A rug has just been pulled out from under our feet, and with my introvert laid out in utter shock, my extrovert showed up, a rival sibling looking to compete for the same scant resources of time and attention, demanding I Do Something Now.

Don’t! shouted my introvert, albeit weakly from the floor. Keep to yourself, it pleaded. Focus your angst inward. Don’t be so arrogant as to think you have something of value to say in the here and now. Lay low. Leave this one to the activists and experts.

Reasonable arguments, all. But here’s the thing: on the subject of hostile takeovers, I am something of an expert. I devoted my doctoral dissertation to groups who used writing as a means of liberating themselves from their longtime oppressors. I lived for six years in a country that had only achieved its independence a generation earlier. Even more instructive, I personally survived the experience of being colonized twice: first mentally, by my domineering ex, then physically, by the cancer, whose insidious advance reminded me so much of the guy’s subtle way of methodically getting me to give up my freedoms, one by one, until it seemed I had nothing left. Claiming that others would be better suited to speaking out against the authoritarian power grab by the big bully now occupying the White House, that someone else would do a better job describing the risks his tyrannical methods pose to our liberty and national character, it’s all just bullshit, a way of shirking my responsibility.

So it’s with a certain authority that I can assure you: the cancer plaguing us today may wear a name other than ER/PR HER2-Positive Invasive Ductile Carcinoma, but it is just as deadly. It’s not only an oppressive ex haunting my own little psyche, but our current President doing a serious number on our collective consciousness. This shit’s not just in me this time, but it’s in you, too. And it’s going to poison the world over if we don’t all stand up to stop it now.

One of my first thoughts on getting the diagnosis was, Did I bring this on myself? My ongoing attempt to answer that question without wallowing in self-loathing has brought me on the greatest journey of my life, towards healing. The same can be true for us as a country.

Yes, we brought this on ourselves. But we also have the means to fix it. We are all cause and cure both. Niit niit mooy garabam, the Wolof proverb goes. Other people are our own best medicine. We need to turn and face this ugliness together, give ourselves permission to speak out, and shout a resounding Fuck No as one. The disease may have found its way into US, but in no way is it a definitive reflection of who we are. Not if we refuse to play host to its toxic presence.

So how should we celebrate World Cancer Day? I’ve come up with a couple suggestions, based on personal experience:

1. Start by making yourself feel good and beautiful and strong.

2. Don’t be afraid to draw fire. Welcome discomfort. Actively displace yourself.

3. Coax this shared malignancy out into the open.

4. Take a good, hard look at it, understanding that it offers us the blessed gift of insight.

5. Figure out where it comes from, and how it managed to take root within us.

6. Spread beauty and love in abundance.

Writing was the tool that best fit my own hand, but everyone has a custom-made means of expression, an instrument perfectly suited to doing the patient work of parsing out what’s healthy in us from what is corrosive. My girls got a great kick out of the Turnip sign that recently sprang up just feet away from the spot on Main Street where an enormous Trump sign has for months been planted like a foreign flag, causing Brewster residents to wonder who we are as a community.

Me, I can’t wait to see what you all come up with.