liar, liar, pants on fire

If you wish to lie, at least make it a damn good one, impossible to figure out and cover your loopholes, no matter how small.

Sarcastic type

   


—
Pretty amazing how a random sketch inspired by the sudden influx of highly confident individuals' shameless modelling of their bodies could turn into something I actually find mildly appealing. Of course, it's lined with mistakes aplenty but I drew that shit and then I traced that shit out in Illustrator and then I threw that shit into Photoshop and prettied that shit up until I got that shit above. That's a million hours worth of work and yes, I am exaggerating.

Honestly though, WHY. Why do people post their bodies on instagram. WHY. All I see are flaws (unless you are a person of heavenly decent like the angels of Victoria's Secret). Why do people even LIKE those pictures. Why does the general population encourage / motivate such blatant narcissistic attempts for attention. WHY.

Probably not

—
Done at a whim because my girlfriend needed some posters ASAP (caps deliberate). Ended up not even giving this to her because I am an anal, perfectionistic retard who is never satisfied and hates all her work. I hate all my work. I really do. Sometimes I stare at all the shit I've done in these 2 years and mope over the fact that I will never have enough balls to put anything in my portfolio. But hey, here is a pink / purple / blue swirly word thingy with a thousand edits accompanied by a million disappointed sighs.

Thursdays are ironically my most detested day of the week. How about that.

ゼリー

So I just found out my passport is due to expire. Which creates the probability of me not being able to go to Tokyo next month with the rest of my company. 

Depressing.

Paper weight.

And so

it expanded. And then

it grew. Until it disappeared.

Raining fragments; the colourful

ones. Buried and hidden, forgotten

with time. Sweeping over the world

that used to be pristine, clear, simple,

and beautiful. And there were smiles

and laughter and the comfort of just

knowing. Before the signs of red

flesh dangling from the whites

of my nails. Before the first

hint of doubt crept into

my pulse and all

I wanted

was

     right

            there

       in

my

arms

       yet

                 never

                         to

                              be

                                        a

                                           g

                                         a

                                       i

                                     n.

Talking like this is retarded. But making a balloon was fun. I was terribly torn.

BASICALLY

I am at the precipice of my breaking point.

Balloon

There is a tugging at my sleeves where I had placed so gently the list of reasons why this time it would be alright to tred precariously into the stupid beauty people had ached and gleamed about. There is a circle drawn around me and it is nearly complete. There is the shadow of grayness arched over my being. There is the sound of a clock ticking and the alarming scratches of strikes driven across a mental board. We're 5 times in and I struggle to sew things up.

But it's alright.
Because you think so.

There is a tugging at my sleeves where I had placed so gently the list of reasons that had popped slowly out of its seams into the hungry mouth of grayness that arched over my being wrapped in a circle within itself so nothing is left and everything is empty. We're 10 times in and you're fading.

But it's alright.
Because I think so.