#its always shit like this. new liver same eagles

[exileorexodus]

holy shit maybe i should just make art that idgaf about the quality or novelty of. like just shit thats basic as fuck but hey, i. actually enjoyed making it. like dude. ive never avoided drawing more in my life. eugh. like who cares if the anatomy and shape language and general skill level isnt up to par with professional animation major kids, im NOT one of them i dont Need to conform to those standards. need to stop holding myself to them because, like. idfk maybe i just LIKE to draw? like damn cant i just oc for my own benefit who cares if isnt some world rocking reality shaking eyecandy shit i just need my stupid ass morons to exist i just need to indulge my own brainrot without wanting to die while i do it

[drainflyclub]

The Limp of Corrupted Feet

I’m sitting on a wall. There is birdshit right next to me, cigarettes and gum stains all over the ground. A pigeon is at my feet, ignoring me, pecking for food. It’s feet are covered in yellow, twisting tumours, and it pathetically hops on its stumps, flapping its wings for stability, eyes wide looking for something to eat. I have just been told I didn’t get the job.

There is this warped idealism that cities seem to bring, those big cities, those creative cities. Did we all learn too much from movies and books? Was there ever really a chance your Dreams could come true by simply being somewhere different, or was it a big lie, like Cinderella or spiritual contentment? The idea is basic - live in The City, do things in The City, experience The City, love The City, let The City provide for you. A cultural and economic hub so you can live a life beyond anything your small town friends could ever imagine or comprehend. Funny, how most the people I’ve met have expressed distaste or outright white hot hate for this place. But they still live here, they still live here. 

My white shirt is now stained with sweat from sitting in a hot office all day, and from nervousness. I stink of worried energy and adrenaline. “You’ve obviously got talent…” they said. I replied all smiles and confidence and stupid fucking finger guns like some sort of 80’s movie character, moustache and all. I washed this shirt last night, soaking a pasta stain on the front and hoping it would be clean. I woke up and it was creased and damp, I hoped my body heat would unwrinkle the fabric. I can’t afford an iron. “You’ve obviously got talent but…” I was meant to come in for another day, but they made a decision in seven and a half hours and two articles. I’m relieved in a way. I only own one good shirt.

I think my own ego has brought me here, but now I’m older and my head has hardened. If I can’t do something, I hate it. There are many things I can’t do. “You just don’t have enough writing experience.” and I think, ‘I do’, but not your kind of writing. Though maybe I haven’t let my writing be judged before. Maybe I am bad. I want to write an article out of spite. I want to prove to them how wrong they are. I smile and wink and die inside. 

I find out that the job would have paid a touch over minimum wage. I factor in food and transport on the ticking calculator that runs in my head, keeping a check on my bank balance. I would probably be on minimum wage before tax and loan repayments. I have trained for 3 years and worked for 3-maybe 4 years in this industry. “You just don’t have the experience.” I think about the value of my education. I think about The City and how it was meant to make my dreams come true. I think about minimum wage. Rent. Food. Bills. Tax. I think about fighting someone, or killing myself, or buying a plane ticket and fleeing. Instead I scratch my sweat covered nose. 

I have secured myself a new job. It also pays a touch over minimum wage. I am a freelancer. In theory this means I choose my own pay and choose my own hours. I am told that they pay this rate and this rate only. I get emails at strange hours demanding I come in. I am on a zero-hours contract, but by law I am a freelancer. I earn less than my colleagues, and have less security. There are no benefits to what I do. I consider how I will end it when I reach 55 years old and can bear to work no more with no pension and no house. I consider trying to work out a higher rate of pay, but I know there are a million broken souls queueing behind me to take my place and work more for less. Last time I tried to do so I took a pay cut. I fuck up my own finances and my sanity for the sake of a job I’m told I should be lucky to have. I don’t feel lucky. 

As I walk back to my flat, I watch a woman stare at me and smile through my sunglasses. I don’t acknowledge her. She must think that I have my shit together. She doesn’t realise that this shining statuesque version of me is made of cheap marble and wood, that I’m wearing my one good shirt and wondering what it’s like to be evicted or made bankrupt. I wonder how soon I’ll experience it. I wonder how many people here are in the same boat. One has a bag from Whole Foods and steps into a brand new Jaguar. I wonder no more. In my head, I claw around trying to figure out how many days of work I need to do to make rent next month. I start to feel sick so I stop. 

I know I have to go to the Benefits Office and ask for help paying my bills, but I don’t want to. I feel like the provider. My mother once told me that what caused my dad to break down was always feeling like he had to provide. I let that thought stick for a while. What did the early tribes do when one of their hunters became lame or blind or deaf? Did they care for them or let them die in the wilderness? My rent has gone up this year. House prices are falling in my area but my landlord has a mortgage and the agency has commission to make so it goes up anyway. I can’t afford another deposit or letting fees so I let them fuck me. My contract says they won’t allow any tenants who use benefits, so I hope I can get the money put directly into my account and hide my shame. 

I look at my bank statement and feel like crying when I realise my mental calculations were off. I am poorer than I thought. I go into a shop and buy the cheapest beer I can find there, because I feel like shit and want to feel better. I look at the £1 bottles of piss-quality cider and work out how long it’ll be before I start drinking that. I pick up two four-packs of regular beer. There were times in the early days of The City where I would buy craft beers and bottles of wine like there was a shortage approaching, where I would go to bars on my day off and sit supping cold expensive pints. I’m not sure if I genuinely believed and experienced The Dream then, or if the fun has ruined my memories.

I walk and walk and walk and consider dropping everything and moving elsewhere. Maybe somewhere cheaper? Maybe a foreign country? I know I can’t. I owe the Government so much money in back taxes. I was seduced by a startup who hadn’t been corrupted by ideals like profit who actually paid me a fair wage for The City. I used my money to live like a human being. The company went bust. Now I’m poorer than ever. Now I have the burden of my past sitting forever on my back, my punishment for committing the sin of thinking I could breathe easy. I have to be in The City to earn enough to be poor. I am Prometheus, but the eagle will find no more liver.

I realise how cliche my experience is. We’re all dreamers who got hammered down by society again and again. I’m not clever or creative. I’m average. I walk through my front door and the chain is still on. The cheap door frame buckles and spits plaster everywhere. I would be worried about my deposit if I knew the several tea stains and cracked paint hadn’t already cost me over a thousand pounds of it. If I leave here I know I won’t be able to afford securing another place. I want to tear the rest of the wood off the frame and break something. Instead I work out which white lies to tell my landlord’s agency so they come and fix it without blaming me. I try to work out if I care whether they know or not anymore. 

I try to write. “You’re just not good enough.” Maybe they’re right. I’m so full of vinegar and spite and drink, I want to show them they’re wrong. I look at my half finished projects and ideas laying in the gutter. I look at my bank balance. I look at the broken door frame. I look at the dark bags under my eyes. I look at the tea stains. I look at my half empty beer. Maybe they’re right. 

I’m sitting on a wall. There is birdshit right next to me, cigarettes and gum stains all over the ground. A pigeon is at my feet. It’s feet are covered in yellow, twisting tumours. It pecks at a plastic bag filled with breadcrumbs. It’s eyes are wide as it tries and tries to get them. The breadcrumbs are inside the bag, teasing the bird through clear plastic. It can’t get to them. It tries again anyway. 

- M. M. Sheridan (2017)