#its starting to get bland.... im drawing the same thing over and over even if the subject is different

[cambriancutie]

might mess w my artstyle

[thebluenebula]

This just an idea I had for a Batfam story. Batman takes in a new child after they lose everything. I don't have any idea where this story will go or if I'll continue it for long.

Masterlist

Day 2

Day 3

A New Bat Pt1

I stepped out of the limo and looked on at the huge mansion looming over me. "Holy shit."

"Indeed Miss Ashleigh." Alfred had gotten out if the car and was now standing beside me. "You head inside now and I'll grab your bags."

"Let me help you Alfred."

"Nonsense. Master Bruce is waiting for you inside. It's best you go see him immediately."

I nodded to him and walked up to the door. It seemed so much larger now that I was in front of it. I knocked gently on in it. Within a minute the huge door swung open and behind it stood Bruce Wayne.

"Welcome to Wayne Manor, Ashleigh."

I looked in awe at the huge entrance hall.

"Ahsleigh. I'm glad that you are here. I tried to make sure most of the children are out today. I imagine meeting them all at once would be overwhelming."

"Exactly how many people live here?" I asked.

Bruce shrugged and laughed a little. "Honestly I'm not sure. It varies from day to day. At any one time there's usually at least eight people here."

"Jeez."

A voice chimed in from behind. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

I turned to see Alfred walking in the door carrying my bags. "Let me help you with those."

"No need Miss Ashleigh. I see no reason in bringing these any further until you have picked a room."

I turned back to Bruce. "I get to pick a room?"

"Well there's quite a few unused room in the manor. I'll get Dick to show you around and you can choose any of the unused rooms."

"Shall I retrieve Master Grayson?" Alfred asked.

"If you wouldn't mind Alfred." Bruce turned back to me. "Dick is my eldest and between us, he has more common sense then most of my other children."

A moment later Dick appeared out of one of the doors. "Alfred said you're ready for me to show the new kid around." He turned to look at me. " And there she is. Nice to meet you, I'm Dick Grayson."

"The names Ashleigh."

"Well Ashleigh, I'll show you around the place." He motioned for me to follow him.

Bruce placed a hand on my shoulder. "You go with Dick and Alfred will prepare dinner. Any allergies or general dislikes he should know about?"

I shook my head. "No none."

Bruce nodded and I took off after Dick.

"B's happy to take you in. Despite the fact he has like a dozen kids he's still not all that good at this parenting thing but he tries. I mean really how bad could he be. I turned out alright.

Dick showed me around the first floor. It had all the practical everyday rooms you would expect in a house. Kitchen, dining room, living room, etc. We chatted as we went through the rooms. Little fun facts about the manor. When it was built, what extensions had been added, etc. He even told me about himself. How he ended up in Bruce's care. He seemed like a nice guy. I'm pretty sure I'll enjoy it here.

"The second floor is mostly like hobby rooms." Dick said as we climbed the stairs to the next floor. "You got any hobbies?"

"I like to draw."

"Well theres a drawing room, a painting room, a music room, a gym, and a room for just about every other hobby you could have."

"Every hobby?"

"Every." Dick put a lot of emphasis on the word.

"Archery?"

"There's a range in the garden.

"Metalwork?"

"There's equipment for that down in the basement, along with woodworking equipment and the sorts."

"How about a shooting range?"

"There's one down in the cave. Jason kept at B until he had one installed."

The idea of Red Hood bugging Batman until he gave in paints a beautiful image in my head.

Dick pointed to a piece of paper hung on the wall. "Steph insisted on putting these maps around on this floor. There's one in almost every hall. She kept getting lost looking for Cass everytime she took up a new hobby."

I examined the map for a moment. "That's a lot of different rooms.""Yeah, it's B's way of showing interest in what were up to. Any time someone mentions an interest in something he has a room renovated to suit that hobby or interest."

"That sounds awesome." I was slightly in awe.

Dick smirked. "Yeah, one of the many perks of being adopted by a billionaire. Babs once complained about the price of cinema tickets, a week later we had an indoor cinema."

"Guess I should just complain a lot." I joked.

Dick laughed. "Anyway I don't think I need to show you around this floor. The maps should be enough direction. Steph works hard to keep them updated." Dick started up the stairs to the third floor. "This floor is all the bedrooms."

Suddenly a shape jumped down from the floor above and landed in from of me. I jumped back and lost my footing. I land back on the second floor. I opened my eyes to see Dick and the shape, a cat, a fuckin cat running down the stairs to me.

"Are you okay Ashleigh?"

I got to my feet. "I'm fine, just a little bruised." I glared at the cat.

"That is Alfred the Cat. He's a bit mischievous."

I watched the cat run off. "Yeah I think I got that. Any other pets I should know about?"

"Well we have two dogs, Ace and Titus, and Batcow."

"Is Batcow a mix between-"

"No, she's just a cow."

"Okay. Yeah a cow bat hybrid would be ridiculous."

"Well should we tour the next level?" Dick gestured up the stairs.

"Sure."

This time we reached the top of the stairs uninterrupted.

"I can't really show you inside the rooms, cause you know invasion of privacy and all that, but I can show you where my room is if you need me, and I'll show you the empty ones."

We walked down a couple of hallways and then stopped outside a door. Dick pushed the door open. "This is my room."

I looked inside. A large double bed against one wall. Gym equipment in the corner but other than that is was pretty ordinary, A dresses and a wardrobe. A big Tv and one one wall a large poster of The Flying Graysons. "It's nice.

"Thank you. Most of my personal belongs are in my apartment in Bludhaven so it's a little bland here. Theres plenty of empty rooms on this floor but I figure you probably want one with a window."

"That'd be nice"

We spent the next twenty minutes or so going through rooms I could choose but to me they all had the same problem. They were two big. I didn't own a lot of stuff. At least I didn't bring a lot of stuff here with me and the last thing I wanted was to be in a big empty room. Eventually we came to a smaller room. I took one step in side and it felt warm. Welcoming even. I turned to Dick. "What about this one?"

"You sure this ones okay? It's a lot smaller than some of the other ones."

"Yeah, its enough room for me." I smiled at him.

"Okay then. Remember you can always change to another one later if this one doesn't suit. I'll have Alfred bring your stuff after dinner."

"I'll bring them up. I'm sure Alfred is busy enough."

Dick smirked. "I think Alfred will like you. Dinners probably nearly ready. You can chill here for a while or wonder around. Just come down to the dining room soon. If you can remeber where it is."

I giggled. "Im sure I'll find it."

He left and I just stood there. Thinking. A month ago my life was completely different but after today everything changes. I smiled out the window. It overlooked the huge back garden. Honestly if I was just passing by the outside I'd assume this place was a hotel. I guess I should go down for dinner. Today is the beginning of a new life.A few flights of stairs and a couple wrong turns later I was in the dining room. The huge table was empty bar Dick sitting near the top.

I sat down across from him. He looked over to me. "Dinner might be another couple of minutes." Looked around to make sure no one else was in the room. "Apparently B tried to help Alfred. Which always ends in disaster."

"Not always." Bruce's voice chimed in from the other side of the room.

Dick flinched at the sound of the voice. "Piece of advice. If you ever talk bad of B, he usually pops up behind you."

Bruce laughed a little and took his seat at the head of the table. "Alfred is just finishing up the meal and will be joining us soon. I hope you enjoy spaghetti bolognese Ashleigh."

"One of my favourites."

"Trust me." Dick chimed in. "Alfred is the best cook in the world."

"While it may not be quite as good as Master Dick says it is most certainly above average." Alfred said as he walked into the room carrying a tray.

"Humble as ever Alfred." Bruce smiled.

"Of course Sir."Alfred set the tray down on the table and began to head back out of the room.

"Won't you be joining us Alfred?" Bruce asked.

Alfred stopped and turned to us. "Of course Sir." He took a seat next to Dick.

"So Ashleigh, have you chosen a room yet?" Bruce asked as he ate.

I had a mouth full of food. Typical. Silence for a second as I swallowed it. "Yes, it's one at the back. It looks over the garden. It lovely out there."

"She actually picked one of the smallest rooms." Dick pointed out.

"Huh." Bruce seemed intrigued. " I don't think anyone has deliberately picked a small room before." He then points to Alfred. "The garden is for the most part Alfred's work."

"It's a nice way to keep myself busy on my days off." Alfred commented.

Dick looked over to me. "Saturday and Sunday are Alfred's days off. Though he does usually still cook those days."

"Yes. Cooking is another thing I find to be relaxing." Alfred then glared over at Dick. "And if I didn't this manor would have burnt to the ground years ago.

"We're not that bad Alfred."

"Shall I tell Miss Ashleigh about the time-"

"No."

"Or perhaps-"

"No Alfred, that's quite alright." Dick turned to me. "Okay so maybe there's a reason most of us are banned from the kitchen.

I giggled and from the head of the table table Bruce let out a small chuckle."

Both Alfred and Dick stared at Bruce for a moment before they began to chuckle themselves. The rest of the dinner went by with lots of chatting and laughing.

"Alfred, delicious as always." Dick complimented the food as he took the last of it up in his fork.

"Thank you Master Dick." Alfred stood up from the table and gathered all the empty plates. "Now if you dont mind, I must tend to the dishes."

Dick stood up. "I'll help you Alfred. You should give Ashleigh a heads up about tommorow B."

Bruce nodded to him as the two left the room.

I looked to Bruce slightly concerned. "What happens tommorow?"

"Nothing serious. Dick just meant all the people that'll be around."

"Oh, how many people?"

Bruce shrugged. "Honestly I'm not sure. As I said it varies. Probably at least four, but it could be like ten. My guess is quite a few. Once they know theres a new person in the house im guessing most of them will come around for a while hoping to meet you."

"Oh." I was slightly worried at the thought of meeting so many people.

"I've warned them not to swarm you. My guess is they'll 'bump' into you across the day. Probably in groups of one or two."

"That doesn't sound too bad."

"I'd warn you about each of them individually but i think its best you learn about them each yourself. Also ever door in this manor can be locked. If you need some time alone."

I nodded and stood up from the table. "Thank you. I should probably head to bed early after the flight. Jetlag and what not.Goodnight. If you need anything dont be afraid to ask."

"Of course. Goodnight."

I walked back to the entrance and grabbed my bags. I went up to my room, only taking one wrong turn this time. It took awhile to fall asleep but eventually it came to me.

I sat up. I was sweating. It was still dark outside. I stood up and threw on my clothes from yesterday. "It was just a dream, just a dream." I took a moment to settle my self. "Now where was that bathroom Dick showed?"

A couple of minutes of aimless wandering later and I found it. After I had emptied my bladder and washed the sweat off my face I headed back to my room. I approached the door when I saw two men walk out of my room. "Dick?"

"There you are." Dick walked over to me. "We just got back from patrol figured I'd check in on you."

I looked him up and down. He was still wearing his Nightwing costume. "Are you expecting something to happen to me?"

"No. Its just wanted to check in on you."

The figure behind him joined in. "He's very motherly kid. Best get used to it."

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I noticed the other figure was holding a helmet.

Dick pointed to him. "This is Jason or just Jay. Jay this is Ashleigh."

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." Jay turned to Dick. "Im gonna go get some shut eye. You can put the kid back to bed." He walked by by me and into one of the rooms.

"Jay's like that with everyone." Dick assured me. "You'll get use to it. The rest of the gang came in a while ago, they were asking about you."

"Oh."

"They're excited to meet you." He patted my shoulder. "Im going to get some rest my self. You know where I am if you need me."

I nodded and headed back to my room. I managed to fall back to sleep for awhile.

[c2emoved]

i dont like admitting it but lemon demon just feels bland to me right now i used to have so much fun making up this whole universe of characters just based off some songs but the fandom is so disgusting i would have rather just had another interest that literally nobody knew about but i actually tried to get somewhat involved with the fandom because it actually Existed in like late 2019 and it was so fun even just seeing peoples art and not contributing anything, but now everyone moved onto like the mag ness are chives or whatever and for whatever reason i still try to seek out people who enjoy the same things i do but every time i make an attempt and maybe like search through the tag on a social media i dont usually use im just reminded that everyone whos still here is honestly literally just fucking boring or drawing homestuck characters with ld lyrics over it or just being a plain freak and i kind of feel bad expecting more out of a fanbase thats literally just music like theres no canon characters or story to it or anything like DUH people are just gonna be like "im listening to touch tone telephone 🤣 #lemon demon" but its just the fact that there actually used to be so many talented artists before i even started listening to it. But unfortunately its entirely my problem because i take things too seriously and get upset when people dont feel the same way i do i guess, but listening to lemon demon just doesnt give me the same imaginitive spark it used to entirely because of the boring ass panromantic ass fandom but im still here only because i literally have nothing else to think about ❤️ and its just disappointing having something almost ruined just because some nasty people also enjoy it but i mean people make fun of lemon demon for a reason even if its a bad reason but i definitely see where theyre coming from and it makes me feel bad to care about it so much

[overobsessivewhumper]

Mr. Hughes new Pet

The same amount of people wanted the next part to be about Gavin and Mutt, as Mr. Hughes and Mutt, so in the end, i just wrote the on that inspired me more in the moment. sorry, it got a little bit long...

Previous part that plays in the future

Content warning: modern slavery, abuse of a minor (Not in a sexual way though), mention of blood

Tag list: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @burtlederp @im-not-rare-im-rarr

@comfortforthepain @18-toe-beans @haro-whumps @deluxewhump @kungpao-giffy @draganies

43002612’s blindfold got removed roughly, letting him look out of the back of the truck at the two men who had put him in it at the facility. Trying to make as much noise as possible from behind the ball-gag  covering his mouth he tried to shake the men’s hands off of him. He had nothing left to lose. At least  not with these two. He’d already been sold to some sick bastard, and there was nothing he could do about.

43002612 decided he might as well make it as hard as possible for them to transport him.

“Shut the fuck up, stupid brat!” One of the men, the one with the lighter hair of the two, grabbed his bound hands, and threw him to the ground outside the truck.

Despite his tied wrists and ankles, 43002612 tries to get up and run away. Like hell he’s going to belong to some sick person that bought him!

43002612 doesn’t get far, tripping over the cuffs around his ankles. He hits the concrete floor hard enough to get the wind knocked out of him. But that doesn’t stop him. He uses his bound wrists to pull himself further away from his two handlers. A hand grabs his ankle and pulls him back. 43002612 claws at the ground, trying to get hold on the stone. Another pair of hands grabs him and flips him onto his back.

“That’s quite enough out of you! Annoying little shit.” 43002612 glares up at his handlers and attempts to yell back at them, but it comes out muffled. Squirming about, he tries to get his ankle out of the vice-like grip it is in. The man that threw him out of the truck and is holding his ankle groans.

“Fine! You brought this upon yourself!” He begins to drag 43002612 towards the door of the big, expensive looking house by his ankle. 43002612 continues squirming and screaming his throat raw. To no avail. The grip doesn’t even loosen slightly. 43002612 gets dragged up the few steps to the front door of the house, hitting his head on one of the steps. Hard enough for him to stop squirming for a moment. The doorbell gets rung, and the three of them wait for a response. Even 43002612 goes silent. A cold feeling of dread and fear grip him. Now there’s no more getting out of this. He’s officially becoming a Pet with a… a Master. 43002612 fights against the rising nausea, not wanting to get sick whilst having a ball-gag in.

A voice comes though the intercom above the doorbell.  The voice sounds smooth and controlled, but has a sort of gruffness to it. “Who’s this?”

The handler not holding 43002612’s ankle replies.

“We’ve got a delivery for you sir. The Pet with the obedience issues.” A laugh comes through the intercom. A surprisingly warm and kind sounding laugh. Maybe his master wouldn’t be so bad?

43002612 shakes that thought. He didn’t want to be owned by anyone, no matter how nice they may be! Then the door opens.

“Well that’s great!” The man that bought 43002612 was tall and broad and looked about in his early forties, with chestnut hair and a grin on his face. “Why don’t you bring it in?”

43002612 gets roughly dragged over the threshold into the grand and fancy entrance. 43002612 dully notes that the floor is made of rather expensive looking wood boards. His ankle gets dropped and 43002612 pulls himself up into a sitting position. The man, 43002612’s new master, signed something on a tablet the darker haired of the two handlers is holding out, before turning to 43002612.

“Goodness, it’s so small! In theory I knew its size, but I didn’t realize how small it’d be in reality.”

“Well, it’s only like… how old is it?” He turns to the second handler, who checks something on the tablet he is still holding.

“Fourteen.”

“Yeah. So he might still grow a bit… And we are not taking that thing back with us again! You already signed for it.”43002612’s new owner laughs.

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t not want this precious little Pet cause of something like that!”

43002612 glares, not liking to be called little, precious or a Pet by some guy that bought him.

When the two handlers leave, 43002612 contemplates attempting to escape through the door. Then he remembers that his hands and legs are tied, and that he’d never get out like that. He decides that he’ll have to wait for a more fitting opportunity.

Once the door is locked, the man comes back to 43002612 and crouches down.

“My name is Jaden Hughes. But you will call me Master, or Master Hughes if I’m in a good mood.” He unfastens the ball-gag from 43002612’s face. 43002612 takes the opportunity to spit in his face.

“I’m not going to call you anything like that you sick bastard!” 43002612 was getting ready to start ranting about other things he was no way going to do, but before he could get them out, Mr. Hughes had clasped his hand over his mouth.

“They where right then. You are a feisty little thing, aren’t you?” He chuckle to himself. 43002612 feels a pang of hatred for the man. Glaring, he bites his owners hand, hard enough to leave teeth marks. Mr. Hughes jerks his hand back and gets up. 43002612 almost laughs.

That is until a swift kick aimed at his ribs lands, knocking the wind out of him, and makes him tip over onto his side.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to bite the hand that feeds you?” He rubs his hand where 43002612 bit him.

Glaring, 43002612 tries to stand up, but Mr. Hughes shoves him over and quickly pins him against the floor. He grabs 43002612’s face roughly, swiftly shoving the ball-gag back into his mouth.

“That’s going back on again.” Standing up, he grabs 43002612 by his hair, not slowing down to accommodate to the smaller man’s slower pace due to his tied legs, leaving 43002612 having to try to keep up by stumbling after him haphazardly. 43002612 goes as fast as he can, but the hand in his hair still yanks him along, a sharp pain accompanying this rough action. 43002612 tries to shove his owner away, but between the hair pulling and his bound hands, this doesn’t work out as well as he imagined.

The hand suddenly lets go, and 43002612 drops to the ground.

“Walk, or I push you down.” Mr. Hughes points to the stairs in front of 43002612. He doesn’t want to do what this psycho wants him to do, especially if what he wants him to go down a stairs that leads somewhere into the dark, but does he really want to risk getting pushed down the stairs?

Not really. So he gets up, glares at the man almost twice his size hovering next to him and carefully starts to hobble down the stairs, not wanting to trip over the cuffs on his ankles. Behind him his owner huffs.

“You’re being awfully slow you know? I don’t like having to wait.” 43002612 turns to glare at him, mumbling what should be “How the hell am I supposed to go faster?!” into his gag.

“Don’t make me push you. A fragile Pet like you wouldn’t do well falling down the stairs.” Still glaring, 43002612 hobbled on, going even slower than before.

43002612 thought he was getting away with it until he got pushed down the last few steps, hitting the floor with a dull thud. But there was nothing dull about the pain that flares up his right side upon contact. 43002612 groans through the ball-gag. Mr. Hughes grins down at him.

“Oops.”

43002612 glares at him, putting as much resentment and disgust into it as he can muster. Before he can do much more then glare, 43002612 is grabbed by the hair again, and yanked backwards into a room.

The room is rather bland, not much more then an empty cellar room except for a few chests towards the left wall upon first glance. But 43002612 understood what this dim lit room was. A room specifically made to cause pain. Disgust and fear gripped 43002612. Mr. Hughes let go of his hair once he was towards the middle of the room. Without paying 43002612 any attention, he locked the heavy door and then moved to the chests, seeming to look for something.

“Now first off, little mutt, there are strict rules in this house.” He doesn’t turn to talk to 43002612. He removes a leather whip from the chest, inspects is, before putting it back. 43002612 feels a small pang of relief. He’s never been whipped before, and didn’t feel like finding out just how it feels all too soon. “As I told you, you will always refer to me as Master. Always. I own you.” His owner pulls a cane from the chest, letting out a please hum before walking back to 43002612. “You will listen to my every word and do what I demand of you. Your purpose in life is to serve me, your master!”

43002612 stands up, glaring at his owner. Like hell he was going to listen to a word he tells him.

“And you will not stand unless I allow you to.” A quick arm movement from Mr. Hughes brings the cane across 43002612’s left cheek. In no way was he using all his strength, but it was more then hard enough to snap 43002612’s head to the side, make him stumble a bit and fall backwards. The pain is sharp and hot, radiating from the initial area of contact out across his cheekbone and jaw. Another stroke of the cane gets aimed at him, 43002612 blocks it from hitting his face with his bound arms. It’s harder then the last one, hard enough to draw blood. 43002612 bites down hard on the ball-gag.

“And you will not bite me. Or spit at me.” Two more equally hard strokes land across his upper arm and shoulder. 43002612 tries to squirm out of the way. His arms get grabbed roughly and pulled out of the way. “Look at me.” 43002612 squeezes his eyes close tighter.

“I said, look at me!” The bigger man’s hand slaps him across the cheek before grabbing his properties face. 43002612 opens his eyes almost automatically.

“That’s more like it, mutt.” His fingers dig into 43002612’s face. “Look at you. So young and stupid. You think you know pain, don’t you? But you don’t.” He presses his thumb into the welt forming on his Pet’s cheek. 43002612 writhes away from the unwanted touch.  “I’ll show you.” He leans in closer. “Not because I’m cruel. No. Because I’m going to make you better.” 43002612 lets out a noise most like a growl.

He gets up and swings the cane at the air a few times.

“You’re a Pet, and highly likely not very intelligent, so I’ll run why you’re being punished past you once again.” He circles 43002612 like a mighty bird of pray would a small, helpless mouse.

“Spitting at your Master is bad.” The cane comes down across 43002612’s naked thigh, twice across each. 43002612 lets out a muffled groan, pulling his legs up to his chest. Despite looking older then most of the handlers 43002612 has had, Mr. Hughes strokes had a far worse bite to them then anything the unwilling Pet had ever experienced. The handlers weren’t supposed to leave marks, this man was obviously planning to leave as many as possible.

“Biting your Master is very bad.” The next strokes come hard and fast across the entirety of 43002612’s back, alternating between lower and upper back. 43002612 doesn’t bother to count them, only tries to wriggle out of the way.

“Talking back to your Master is also very bad.” Mr. Hughes next attack shows no sign of actually going for one specific part of 43002612, striking any part of him that shows exposed and vulnerable skin. 43002612 attempts to move out of the reach of the cane strokes, trying to stand up. But Mr. Hughes makes short work or his futile attempt by kicking him in the chest.

“If you know what’s best for you, you’ll stay down, pathetic thing.” As another storm of sharp, fast blows rain down on 43002612, he can only curl up and try to cover his face the best he can with his cuffed wrists. The constant new sources of pain blossoming across 43002612’s legs, back and arms are like nothing he’s had to experience before. The pain is intense and dominant, replacing any clear thought 43002612 could have mustered. Tears stung in the corner or his eyes, threatening to role down his cheeks. 43002612 didn’t want to give the sick bastard the satisfaction of crying, but it was all just… so much!

Long after the pain had become way too much for the small unwilling Pet, Mr. Hughes stopped. He crouched down next to his Pet, wiping the blood off the cane on the corner of 43002612’s shorts.

43002612 is trembling hard, a couple of silent tears running down his cheeks as he groans and whimpers into his gag. Mr. Hughes gently lets his hand slip into 43002612’s curls, combing through them.

“Shhh… I know Pet. I know it hurts. Shhh…” He wipes the tears off his cheeks with his thumb. 43002612 glares at him, trying to keep the pain from showing on his face. “Oh don’t look at me like that, mutt. You had to be punished. You where being very bad.” 43002612 mumble into the ball-gag how much he hates his new Master, focusing on glaring harder rather then the intense pain occupying almost any part of him that hadn’t been covered. Mr. Hughes sighs.

“I think I know what you need. Some time alone to think about how bad you’ve been.” He on does the cuffs on 43002612’s wrists, moves his arms behind his back and puts them back on there. He drags 43002612 to the far wall, manhandling him into a kneeling position. 43002612 tries to move away, but feels to weak. And when his owner lifts his bound arms up behind him to attach them to a hook in the wall, he can do nothing but vocalise his discomfort by groaning loudly into the gag. The position strains his arms and shoulders.

“Now, don’t squirm about too much, or you’ll dislocate your shoulders.” Mr. Hughes laughs warmly, and strokes 43002612’s cheek. 43002612 tries to move away, but jerks his arms. The strain on his arms becomes worse, and he stops moving instantly, looking anywhere but his new owner.

“Now why don’t you have a long hard think about how the things you did were very, very bad. And if you behave when I come back, I might even untie you an let you have a rest. Maybe even something to drink or eat.” He smiles, ruffles 43002612’s hair almost affectionately, then leaves, switching the light off and locking the heavy iron door behind him.

43002612 shifts a little bit, trying to get more comfortable. With no success. The strain on his arms only seems to get worse. A few more silent tears slip across his cheeks, dropping onto the concrete floor in front of him. He can’t see the bloody welts covering his skin, but he can feel them more then well enough. He can even feel the blood running across his skin from some of them, can feel it pooling at the hem of his shorts.

43002612 stares off into the darkness. He has to get out of here, that much is for sure. 43002612 knows he’ll get out. He’s determined to do so. He won’t succumb to this sick bastards wills. He’ll find a way to slip away, and then he’ll run and he’ll run and he’ll never look back. He’s heard from older Pets at the facility, one’s which chose to become Pets, how hard life was out there. But 43002612 knows he could cope. He would manage. Because he’s determined and never gives up. And having a hard life is a small price to pay for freedom and being able to belong only to yourself.

43002612 squeezes his eyes shut and smiles. He won’t be stuck here long. This is only a temporary pitstop on his road to freedom. It won’t be long. Soon he’ll be free of people owning him, free of all the pain and punishment, free of these cuffs.

Soon, he’ll be free.

[adrian-paul-botta]

Uncle Vanya – 1973

Having been lucky enough to return to the stage from films in the thirties under the unique genius of Jed Harris in “Uncle Vanya”, a second blessing came when I was asked to play Marina, the Nurse, under the direction of the brilliant Mike Nichols.

Lillian Gish, adapting a delightful for the casion, is charming as a nurse prepared to set every thing right with tea, vodka, God, and a smile. (Walter Kerr – NY Times) Photographs by Ellen Mark

Conrad Bain – Ilya Ilyich Telegin Waffles Julie Christie – Yelena Andreyevna Lillian Gish – Maryina Nanny Barnard Hughes – Alexander Vladimirovich Serebryakov Cathleen Nesbitt – Maria Vasilyevna Voinitskaya George C. Scott – Mikhail lvovich Astrov Nicol Williamson – Ivan Petrovich Voinitsky Vanya Elizabeth Wilson – Sofya Alexandrovna Sonya Rod Loomis – Yefim R. Mack Miller – Worker Tom Tarpey – Worker

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Stage: Mike Nichols’s ‘Uncle Vanya’ The New York Times Archive – 1973

The difficulty with many all‐star productions of clas sics is simply that on occa sion the stars get in your eyes and you can scarcely see the classic. It is much to Mike Nichols’s credit that this does not happen in his staging of “Uncle Vanya,” which opened last night at the Circle in the Square Joseph E. Levine Theater. Al though at the preview I at tended there were plenty of histrionic sparks, the play it self was never lost sight of. “Uncle Vanya” at its sim plest level is a play about unfulfillment. No one gets what he wants, and every character, even the bluster ing professor, has to settle for second best. As a piece of playwriting, it is a model of economy, and the action passes Iike the wind through silver birches. • Although “Uncle Vanya” is perhaps less densely textured than either “The Cherry Or chard” or “The Three Sis ters,” it has always main tained a hold on actors and audiences alike, partly, no doubt, because of the aston ishing contrast between the two leading male roles, Van ya and Astrov. These two men, losers both, one a sen timental but rather endear ing fool and the other an ecology‐minded doctor, seem to represent the folly of in decision on the one hand and of circumstances on the other. It is nearly 30 years since Í first saw “Uncle Vanya” with Ralph Richardson as Vanya and Laurence Olivier as Astrov, and a little more than 10 years since I saw Olivier once again as Astrov, this time opposite Michael Redgrave. Those were duels aria duets of a rare magic. The present Broadway play ers, Nicol Williamson and George C. Scott, are fine enough—particularly perhaps the latter—and they do, un der Mr. Nichols’s direction provide a fascinating con trast in acting styles. Williamson is an internal actor, Scott is an external actor. With Mr. Williamson everything is withdrawn, hid den, turned in upon itself. He looks ratty and frantic, a man barely in control of himself. His arms flail the air, quixotically, his eyes have a manic gleam. His final climactic act of aggression when he tries, unsuccessfully of course, to shoot his tor mentor, is presented as an uncoordinated gush of pain. Mr. Scott goes, about his business with a difference. His gravelly, bullfrog voice and his shark’s‐grin charm are both used ver conscious ly. He moves with a calm deliberation, a certainty of purpose. The action of the play is reflected in his face almost as if it were a TV mointor, and the performance —in total variance with Mr. Williamson’s free‐style agony —is beautifully caculated. There are many splendid aspects of this production, which is probably the closest we have reached in years to a classic staging of national theater dimensions. Obvious ly the most important is this opportunity to compare, con trast and enjoy two major actors going about their busi ness with such successfully differing skills. But Mr. Nichols has also done a good job with a somewhat unequal cast. The translation, by Albert Todd and Mr. Nichols himself, is fresh and idiomatic. Some people may, in places, find it too idiomatic. I do not. To me it seems to be the privilege of the translator to update, subtly but seriously, a translation to make it more immediate to its audience. And Mr. Nichols’s staging has the same quality of slippered ease and well‐worn informal ity.

The Cast

For all the advantages of arena staging‐‐‐sand the close presence of actors such as Williamson and Scott has an actual physical force here—it is no particular help to the designer, and it is a great credit to Tony Walton (and the lighting designer, Jules Fisher) how admirable the play looks. With “Uncle Vanya” there is a terrible tendency for every other actor except Vanya and Astrov to fade into the woodwork, and this terrible tendency has not been avoided here. Julie Christie as Elena, the young wife of the old professor, looks dazzling but seems bland. Against the pyrotech nics thrown at her by Mssrs. Scott and Williamson she seems chaste and unde fended. Elizabeth Wilson, on the other hand, is a very ex perienced stage actress, and a very fine one, but she is miscast as the unhappy Son ya. She looks, for example, far older than her supposed stepmother, Miss Christie, and althotigh this is possible, it does not appear to help the play. Her performance has little of the special vulner ability called for. Barnard Hughes blustered effectively enough as the professor, Lillian Gish proved a soft‐toned delight as the old nurse, and Conrad Bain, down at heel but non chalant, was a very good Waffles. Cathleen Nesbitt looked very properly digni fied and yielding as the re luctant matriarch. This “Uncle Vanya” does have its faults, but at its best it represents precisely the kind of classic theater we desperately need in New York City. This is a very special brand of theatrical excitement.

Lillian Gish in the dressing room – 1973 (Uncle Vanya)

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A Too Tearful ‘Vanya’ By WALTER KERR JUNE 10, 1973

AT the beginning of the second half of Circle in the Square’s “Uncle Vanya,” Nicol Williamson starts to enter the drawing room of a Russian country estate, sees that Julie Christie and Elizabeth Wilson are still moping about in it, and promptly with draws without uttering a word. It is the most intelligible move of the eve ning and at the preview I attended the audience laughed its understanding approval. For Mike Nichols has done the im possible. He has taken a powerhouse of an acting company—George C. Scott, Julie Christie, Nicol Williamson, Cathleen Nesbitt, Elizabeth Wilson, Lil lian Gish—and in effect disassembled it, leaving individual performers to grope heir ways alone through garden fog and parlor fatigues, unmotivated, un related, characterless and crying. Indeed director and actors seem scarcely to realize that Chekhov has ever been parodied, placing most of their emphases—with great solemnity —on the very mannerisms that are most familiar and have most often been kidded. Here is the garden swing, in which a bored young lady can loll, away and say how bored she is. The omnipresent samovar, household god indoors and out, more actor’s refuge than tea‐time pause. The guitar, to be picked up and plucked by way of an nouncing that a scene may soon end, though not before some actor’s words have been drowned out in the twang ing. The scenes that end in a sigh, or begin in a sigh, or seem to be sighing between. The tears, the tears, the tears. What has happened to Mr. Nichols and friends? One can only guess. Though the last effective New York production of “Uncle Vanya” (with Franchot Tone and ‘Clarence Derwent, under David Ross’s direction) made the very most of Chekhov’s claim that he wrote comedy and not endless lamen tation, Mr. Nichols, known primarily as a director of comedy, may not have wanted to put his too‐ready trademark upon it. Plumping for earnestness in stead—and letting occasional unavoid able titters fall where they just do fall —he may have taken much too literally certain remarks made by the despair ing, though often foolish, figures of the piece. Mr. Scott, as the neighboring doctor forced to spend more time with a list less and hypochondriacal family than he thinks good for him, does point out, in a summarizing speech, that the group is rudderless, emotionally barren, incapable of “spontaneous, free rela tionships” with nature or with one another. And what Mr. Scott is saying is to a considerable degree true, though he himself may not be aware of how kinky his own passion for forestry is. But the fact that charac ters’ lives lack a pattern does not mean that a play can stand unpatterned. The very point itself must be made into a design that dis plays it if people’s lives lack cohesion we must be given a cohesive vision of that. Instead, we watch wan derers, fine actors roaming slippered through the night in search of a tone—some tone, any tone—they can all sound together. Their inability to find one is in part due to the ex tremely awkward shape of the new playing area at Circle in the Square. The long horseshoe curve—bor rowed from the Circle’s old quarters downtown but stretched out like taffy here —is simply too long: an ac, for stationed near the pine wood back wall trying to make contact with another stationed on the front curve near the samovar had better be trained in semaphore. It can be done: at one point Mr. Scott, whose burning bush eyes penetrate dis tances and brush away ob stacles better than most people’s, raps out a sudden “don’t you agree, Madame?” to Miss Christie miles away —he is speaking over the heads of three or four lan guorous comnanions —and, in the bristling silence he creates, the actor simply cleaves the space. But it takes a George C. Scott in tensity to do it, and even then we cannot keep both figures in visual focus at once: our own eyes are busy Thus the event is both physically and psychologi cally fragmented, with each performer left to fend for himself, hoping against hope that at some vanishing‐point out in the auditorium sep arate values may coalesce, contrive to make sense. It doesn’t happen, and in the circumstances one can only ‘clutch at straws, taking such pleasure in passing as is passing. The straws exist. Near the end of the first half Eliza Beth Wilson, forlornly in love with Mr. Scott but a prisoner of plainness since childhood, fixes her wasted smile and decides to become friends with her stepmother, Miss Christie. The decision made, a spring of giddy joy deep inside her is released: now she is a blushing school girl again, bubbling too much, suppressing laughter by clapping her hands to her mouth, darting in a dozen directions like a joyous ani mal caged so long it is be wildered by freedom. Her quieter gestures during this period of revelation are ex quisite, too. Putting her hand out to Mr. Scott and then snatching it back be fore he can notice, or strok ing Miss Christie’s golden hair with a motherly appro bation that is part envy, the actress is Even more striking is Nicol Williamson’s outburst once he hears that the estate he has lived on and helped to maintain is to be sold. Mr. Williamson is the Uncle Van ya of the piece, fifth wheel forever, stretching himself out of morning stupors only to take a little more vodka than is wise, winding up at Miss Christie’s feet drunken ly pawing her nightgown. But if he has accepted his status as eternal also‐ran, a core of resentment has been building up inside him, a re sentment that seems nearly to electrocute him the mo it is released. The quiver of his body now threatens to tear his frame apart as he spews words faster than his brain can form them, the gasp of disbelief in his throat nearly strangling him while he plunges on. As a rush of un welcome truths pours out in the uncontrollable hysteria, we feel much more than embarrassment for this inef fectual man who knows he is being ineffectual even as he fights. We feel consider able sympathy: when a fail ure finally lets loose his fury, and fails at that as well, we are unexpectedly moved. And the futile ferocity of the outburst proves to be the perfect springboard for what follows: Vanya’s firing a pis tol at the man who has be trayed him, and missing. The moment —inevitably farce, with the pompous professor ducking behind furniture while Vanya proves he can not so much as shoot straight—is the most ticklish in the play, particularly in a production that means to be as dolorous as this one. But Mr. Williamson has pitched his man to such shattering irrationality that the gesture can be absorbed easily. It remains funny without contradicting our serious concern for its real Otherwise we must wait long and listen hard for small comforts. Mr. Scott is always intelligent, perhaps too intelligent for the part he is playing; surveying the others with so much wisdom, he seems not only to tolerate them but the untidy play as well. His detachment is quite total, though he gets at least one brief opportunity to bare his teeth and invite the predatory Miss Christie to sink fangs into him. Miss Christie herself is bland in her often‐announced ennui, unable to cope with a sec ond‐half soliloquy and bur dened—late in the play—with a wig that makes her look as though she had walked through a meringue factory. Barnard Hughes and Conrad Bain do not define themselves firmly enough to let us see precisely where they fit into the mosaic of the play, but Cathleen Nes bitt is regally severe and arrestingly handsome as a leftover widow and Lillian Gish, adapting a delightful for the casion, is charming as a nurse prepared to set every thing right with tea, vodka, God, and a smile. On the whole, the produc tion is one in which every body seems ailing, not just the fatuous tyrant who rules the household from a wheel chair. The evening turns into a competition to see who is unhappiest, and can prove it; even Miss Wilson is finally asked to dab at her eyes once too often. In all of the moisture, the essential work does not get done. The peo ple, so drowsily severed from one another, never really succeed in compelling our deep interest in their respective isolations, never persuade us that their wasted lives are fascinating wastes well worth exploring. It so happens that I was on the point of scribbling a note to this effect at the precise moment Mr. Scott turned to Miss Christie and said, “I can see that this doesn’t in terest you,” startling me no end. But perhaps that is what I mean by Mr. Nichols taking certain lines too literally. His premise would seem to be that if a charac ter isn’t interested in what is being said, then what is said dare not be interesting. But this is fatal. With some of the most enlivening ac tors in the world at his com mand, a director has let the bored bore us.

Photo: Lillian Gish and Helen Hayes at the opening of Uncle Vanya 1973 June 4

Photo Gallery:

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Uncle Vanya 1973 Uncle Vanya - 1973 Having been lucky enough to return to the stage from films in the thirties under the unique genius of Jed Harris in "Uncle Vanya", a second blessing came when I was asked to play Marina, the Nurse, under the direction of the brilliant Mike Nichols.

[pensurfing]

Caitlin’s Three Things List

Okay, so moments (probably hours by the time I finish this) ago I wrote a goals list that I think is good for self-evaluation. (Keyword: This is what I think. results may vary depending on what you’re looking for.)

I’m going to hop to it and answer some of these that I laid out in hopes of having a better idea of what I want to accomplish. 

The Three Things Lists!

1) Three things that went well this year.

* Audience growth

So once upon a time, I grew a pretty decent following due to creating an Inktober Prompt list. My expectations: Maybe two of my friends would do this, maybe. And then one stranger that has followed me for a while. (There are a few followers I recognize their username because if I post something they always like it and for some reason that keeps me going.)

But because of this prompt, I was exposed to MANY new creators and illustrators that I now enjoy chatting with and following! Instagram had the biggest maintained growth. I’m excited to create for an audience that actually expects me to create and not just for friends who see my things “whenever they aren’t busy”. (Not to bash them or anything, just there are a lot where unless I tell them, they don’t see the posts I make.)

Another surge of growth in my audience was due to tabling at conventions this year. I was terrified to show my work let alone attempt to sell it to someone. Tabling at cons not only boosted my confidence but also quieted one of my ever going demons. “YoU sUcK aT dRaWiNg CaItLiN.” “How do you have a degree? oh right, you just barely passed.” I can’t say this is the case, there is an audience that genuinely enjoys my scribbles. So I am forever thankful to Atlanta Comic Con for giving me that chance. It honestly opened a few doors for me.

**Process

I’ve gotten more comfortable with showing my process. It can be messy, crisp, and illogical. But turns out the people who enjoy my content enjoy my scrambled thoughts. It’s something about not being alone in this sort of sense that calms the nerves.

So I can say with chest poked out that sharing process has gotten MUCH better. I can thank a self-help book I bought this year that was a FANTASTIC BUY. Austin Kleon has [two] (currently? If he has more then I’m buying it like people buy a name brand.) books that helped me see that it is GREAT to share not only the process but advice. “Show Your Work” is the book I’m talking about for now. Great tips, the outline is on the back of the book. So if you’re like me, I need to clearly see what I might be getting into, you might have a ball.

And finally, (not calling myself out on this but other) If you’re going to respond to people when they ask you “how do you___?” do not answer “Google it”. That is the rudest thing I’ve seen some of even my FAVORITE illustrators do; that response can burn in hell. PERIODT. (my one typo allowed.)

*** Art Style Exploration

For those who think college will help you establish an art style that you’ll enjoy or help nourish the one you currently have.... Let me save you over 80K.... No, the fuck it won’t.

That was the biggest thought I had going into art school. If anything, it confused me more and utterly destroyed what little confidence I had in my drawing style. After graduating, I had a huge swing from how I used to draw to how my art currently looks. I stopped trying to please the one professor who stood between me and my degree and started drawing to please my tastes. And guess what? That did something. And that something WORKED. I love what I draw now; I see why I chose this as my career path. I’m genuinely happy with how my pieces turn out versus in college just wanting to turn the damn thing in and hoping it isn’t an F.

2) Three things you could have handled better.

* The loss of a good paying client.

Now hear me out when I say this: A good paying client DOES NOT EQUAL a good client. Say that three times and then exhale.

Back earlier this year, I had the opportunity to work with a writer who gave me hell and back. And even that is an understatement. I dealt with her because in school you were taught “if they pay on time, finish the work and get the exposure.” 

I’m here to tell you my lesson learned: A good paying client DOES NOT EQUAL good exposure, good pay, a good client. 

I was doing the work of three for the price of one and a half. (And was always told I charged too much.) She tried abusing this power with friends of mine, with other illustrators. When things turned out bad, she tried saying it was my fault. She read my contract and then tried telling me I changed the wording, I purposely did this thing, another thing was my fault. I could go on with this story.

The part that I wish I handled better?

How I treated myself afterward. I’m so used to people telling me, “Cait, this is what you do wrong. This is how you fix it.” that I don’t consider my own feelings, and when I bring my feelings into the scenario they no longer matter. Because they tell me they don’t matter. In this case, I wish I had treated me better, because my feelings, my mental health, DOES matter.

**My Patience Getting Into Conventions.

Pretty self-explanatory. I got into one, finished one, and wanted to do eight more in a week. But this sort of thing just takes time and I need to accept that.

***My losses

I had to listen to a Little Mix song to actually learn this one. The context of the song is nowhere near the topic at hand. But a verse from Power feat Stomzy really packs a punch after this year: 

“ You look him in the eye and say, "I know I'm not a guy But see there's power in my losses and there's power in my wins" “

I had to look one of my demons in the face, and state something similar. My loses mean I’m trying. My loses piling shows I’m not willing to give up easily, and that is something that took a while to be content with.

3) Three things artistically you want to improve on.

*Composition

It’s not awful, but it can be better.

**Color

I told this BOLDLY if I might add while critiquing someone else’s portfolio; “Your color palette is boring. All your [things] look as if they are from the same universe, during the same time of day, with the same kind of mood. After three photos it’s bland, boring, and understood you have a preference.” 

Can you say damn Cait? The statement was, in fact, true, but I certainly could not talk. My color palette is mainly bright, pop, and happy. In order to tell a story, I KNOW it is best told with color. And I failed myself this year. But I sure won’t next year.

***My Damn Tag

Okay, alright. Why is it well-established artists have their tag figured out? Even some who’s art style is so recognizable (I’m looking HEAVILY at you Gabriel Piccolo.) we know it’s theirs, seem to have a tag that suits them and works for them. But more importantly, they put it in A VERY DECENT SPOT. SOMEONE SHARE THIS SCIENCE WITH ME? CAUSE APPARENTLY I DON’T GET IT.

4) Three things you want to focus on trying.

*More backgrounds.

As much as it pains me, I need to improve on backgrounds and perspective. When I do make backgrounds, I’m told I make great pieces. That I should look into becoming a background artist. And don’t get me wrong, I like them. But I don’t like them.

I feel as though I need to improve in that region so that way I don’t feel as though it’s a weakness of mine. My backgrounds are nice, but they aren’t nice to my standards.

**More designs

I love character designs, but let’s be real. If you were to scroll down my site or my Instagram page, or even this Tumblr archive, could you tell? 

I draw characters a lot sure, but none are designs. No process, no sheets, no turnarounds, none of that. So that’s a huge goal of mine for 2019.

***Scheduling posting

At one point I was pretty good at this. Live stream in Instagram and Twitter, cool. Videos on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Cool. Everywhere gets a photo, everywhere gets a silly one-liner. Yay. I’m not leaving anything out.

Well by the end of this year that totally crumbled. 

SO I want to try getting better at that thing there. Because having attempted this at the end of the year was cool, but it still wasn’t enough apparently.

5) Three positive things to tell yourself.

* You are an inspiration. That’s all you wanted to be in life, you did it. I’m proud of you.

**You didn’t kill yourself like you tried to; you opened up about it for once and used that pint up anger creatively. That is very hard to do, trust. I’m proud of you.

***You moved on, matured, and let it go. Even when the goddess inside you told you these peasants didn’t deserve your light, your friendship, your greatness. I’m proud of you.

I’m just proud of me for not snapping when I had every right to; not everything deserves a reaction.

6) Three negative things you want to leave for 2018.

*Comparisons 

Oh boy. I am extremely guilty for this: I’ll compare myself to a well-known illustrator my age. I’ll compare myself to friends who are in the field having a blast and getting work; I’ll compare myself to friends who aren’t in the field and they struggle at getting work. I’ll compare myself to the kid I graduated high school with who is traveling the world, is able to eat, come home to his dog and relax because he doesn’t have tuition to pay. I’ll compare myself to these goddamn baby boomers who keep repeating “We didn’t have it hard, you’re just being stupid. Millennials aka our children deserve to starve. We’ll just put our faith in our grandchildren because screw the kids we raised and refuse to pay accordingly. $7 an hour worked in my day, they need to make it work now.” I’ll compare myself to fake people I created in my head and purposely made scenarios and wonder why I’m not like them, said creations I made because I was pretty low for ten minutes...

I just compare myself too much. To any damn body. It’s draining, obnoxious and most of all pointless. My new motto for next year is: “Unless it is helping you grow yourself, your brand, your spirituality, don’t do it.”

I’m not comparing my chapter two to someone’s chapter thirty-five. I’m not even comparing my chapter two to someone else’s chapter two. I need to stop doing that PERIOD! My journey is different, unique, and worth seeing through.

**Listening to negative others.

A couple of years ago, I lost a close friend around the time my aunt passed away. During this time I was hypersensitive to any and everything done or said; I also kept many walls up to hide my mourning. He caught the crossfire of all of that. I kept secrets from him I was too prideful of admitting and lashed out because of the emotional turmoil I kept suppressed. While in the midst of packing his things and leaving my life, he mentioned that I was a failure because I was unemployed and artistically speaking I hadn’t accomplished anything; that I would remain that way because that’s just the person I deserved to be. Now mind you, I graduated college that year; he was a flunk out. I changed my art style dramatically compared to when I started school to pass; he thought just posting crappy pictures of lukewarm sketches were equivalent. I started attempting trends and all he could do was copy. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t to bash my old friend. If he were to come back into my life and move on like nothing had happened I’d do the same. (With some limitations.)

It’s just while typing out this scenario, of our four-year friendship I can’t think of one nice thing/compliment/gesture he has said to me. That’s my problem.

I can be praised, admired, and look highly upon for years straight. But my problem is I let others negative thinking and comments marinate with me for a long while. Too long of a while.

Another example is my mother’s friend. (My mom has many friends that do this shit, but this one stung more.) 

This friend always roots for me; treats me like a person, and encourages my artistic journey. I consider her family before my actual relatives. 

We went over for some barbeque the family was having and I was ready. Black Hallmark Cookouts, laughing, good food, good music, shit talking others teams. She asked me a harmless question of when was I going to quit my day job. Seemed like nothing at first, until the added gest of what she continued with. “All I’m saying is you can’t do [your day job] forever. That will get old. If the art thing doesn’t work out next year what’s plan b?”

I’m not a calm person (usually). Normal Caitlin would have cursed her out and mentioned how just because she chose a job to settle and be miserable at for most of her life doesn’t mean I have to follow suit. But again, of all the nice encouraging things she has done, said, and showed, for a while, I couldn’t think of it. 

So I pray I let go of this nasty behavior in 2018; it’s going to be hard but it is dire.

***Saying I’m Not Enough

Alright, now put the combination of the two above in a bowl and what do you get? A Caitlin who struggles in interviews and applying for jobs because I let comparisons and negative comments rule my thoughts. This stopped me from applying to jobs I would have been perfect for; internships that could have helped me; posting art online.

We (including me) have to stop thinking that in order to be an illustrator means we have to pass a certain threshold of struggle, success, and a huge number of followers. That isn’t the job description. NO JOB DESCRIPTION has ”must have at least 10K followers on Instagram or Twitter.” nOnE. 

So we (including me) need to stop treating ourselves this way. Period.

7) Three things you’re looking forward to in 2019.

*Going to move conventions.

**Adding pieces to my portfolio to try again at job hunting.

***Becoming content with the fact that my current situation isn’t my permanent situation. Unless I laze around and make it so.

Alright, so this was basically me calling myself out on my noise. Lashing out my demons and putting it in writing what I want to accomplish. I hope this inspires you to write yours, even if you keep it private. I hope it guides you and maintains your vision.

I’ll see you in 2019

A new wave

Caitlin xx

[bro-study]

let me tell u about my ib ride

y’all it’s my last year in college and i got some things to say! (its a long read lol)

so in hs i was like they hella advanced kid (took honors classes since freshman year) i was basically ib bound the moment i stepped into hs.

honestly nothing...and i mean nothing prepares you for ib (not even college lol).

ib was like 2 years of punishment endured by sisyphus (rolling a stone up a hill and watching it go back down, yes i read it in ib english lol am i sensing foreshadowing???). 

junior year (3rd year of high school) i was like i belong here in ib like i took honors and i know i’m smart. thinking of how well i did in my honors classes i was like this is going to be easy just a little work (lol was i dead wrong).

i remember my first day of FULL ib, it was like i was going to college (at least what i thought was college) honestly, and sitting in my ib english class and being like wow everyone here is at my level or higher.

the first year of ib english, for me ruined my self esteem like hella bad. the first paper i wrote i was told that i “did not get the assignment and on top of that my writing was not at the ib level” and from that day on i constantly felt stupid. like wow do i belong here? why am i here? every assignment i would get back asking me if i did the reading or that i did not understand (btw i did do the reading ms. h!) the nights i spent crying while writing a paper about the themes of a book were honestly my lowest point in life (like honestly i have not felt more useless than that time in my life). But no matter how many tears i shed, no matter how many nights i stayed up i still continued to turn in papers and again get the same results (except like when we had to write that huge paper comparing two books and their themes my teacher was like wow okay i see you lol). 

basically writing is not my strong point for ib but good enough to get A’s in business research classes in college lol. 

do not get me started on ib history (okay imma talk about it). i kind of blame the teacher for making me hate history (i never took a history class in my high school prior to ib we had to take economics and government). it was in the morning and i just felt like wtf i do not understand anything she would talk and talk but none of made sense, the text is so bland and im lost all the time (we took quizzes every day for the chapter reading, which i didn’t do bc i was of course doing other hw lol and i would get 0/10 or 3/10 and i would walk out of class feeling like the dumbest person in the world). i remember talking to her and she told me that maybe ib history should be dropped (like wtf)

so, basically here i’m bad a quizzes but let me tell you about the great depression and its economic impacts.

the one class i enjoyed was ib bio (i was actually pretty good like i got an A my first term like WHAT!!!) and i liked it because i guess in a way my teacher was kind of an asshole that i did not want to be on her bad side so i tried hella hard.

chemistry, not bio, will have special place in my heart (shout out to my soph. chem teacher who was my ib bio HL teacher and who told me i should have taken ib chem instead of bio lol). btw i can not tell you how periods effect the human body even though we spent a whole month learning about it.

anyways the first year of ib (i also took ib math, ib physics [okay honestly i’m still pissed my school made me take ib physics instead of ib art but that another story], ib japanese (ha! a mess truly) and ib tok) i was destroyed like i was an emotional mess my family noticed it and my friends (those that did not leave me bc i would ditch most to go to the library instead of hanging out with them [shout out to the librarian for letting me stay during lunch to do my hw!]) noticed i was not myself. I had bags under my eyes like i looked worn out like really bad. 

and yet after all that i was in full ib my senior year of hs, had i learned nothing?? (lol i didn’t until i took ib physics that is were i draw the line!!)

but thats how all ib kids look right? they complain about having no hours of sleep and have their jumbo cups of coffee? you know the ones that walk in packs talking about how photosynthesis works and the ones that stand outside the library studying in groups waiting to take “that test” in spring.

no, it should not be normalized that kids (YES KIDS, I KNOW HOW MUCH YALL WANNA GROW UP) should have 0 sleep and be expected to do everything colleges want (ok honestly go to a community college save money and transfer over). 

i learned something, college (yes even them “hard” majors) is nothing like ib (even my sis who did partial ib said her private college was easier than ib lol). but let me tell you something, ib taught me my limits and taught me when i know its too much, it also taught me (this is the dark side of ib lol) how to bullshit a paper in a way that teachers are impressed. 

it kind of desensitized me in a way, like nothing seems as stressful as my years in ib, literally nothing (not even my exam that is in 7 hours that i have yet to study for).

anyways for you ib kids out there: YOUR SLEEP, YOUR HEALTH, YOUR HAPPINESS IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN GETTING A 7 ON YOUR IB TEST. LEARN TO SAY NO, LEARN TO LOVE YOURSELF, AND LEARN THAT YOU WILL SURVIVE EVEN IF YOU GET A 1.

(lol i got a 2 on my ib japanese exam and look at me, i’m doing fine and btw i have not touched or talked japanese since graduating hs Bp) 

[askfrankpritchard]

Francis Pritchard x Reader Chapter 1

P1TH0N’S JOURNAL: FEBRUARY 9TH 2027

7:38am

         In the distance sirens can be heard as I made my way to Sarif Industries. The building reflects the face of Detroit, dismal but full of new hope. This new company just became well known only a year or two ago.

       A motorbike coming to a stop in the underground parking garage barely lit by the lights embedded in the walls. The basement entrance unlocked with a triple beep granting access to the engineer room. Spacey and dark since none of the lights in the building have been turned on yet. Black lights can be seen out in the hallway running low on power.

     I flip the switch fuses that give power to everywhere in the building. I squinted at the sudden brightness of the room as I hung my jacket on the coat rack.

     The last Engineering manager disappeared and they needed a replacement asap, so they gave me the promotion to fill the position. My talent can go from fixing Coffee machines to hot wiring cars in hollywood movies. Speaking of coffee, I should go get some myself. I walk up the flight of stairs towards the Café, provided by Sarif himself, and to where the kitchenette can be found.

      “Froger’s Instant Coffee.” Tastes just as good as its name. Cheap. Sarif may provide for the Café, but it doesn’t mean he has to get the good stuff.

         I start the coffee maker and began digging through the cupboards for that one special mug. Scribbled on it was the word ‘coffee’, but in a /blue/ sharpie instead of black. I took a quick look inside and noticed something crusty in it, “JC. Whoever washes the dishes around here need more elbow grease next time.” I rinsed it quickly and watched the coffee maker…make coffee. Just as exciting as watching the scientists work, but eventually something good happens.

       The coffee maker started gurgling and stopped making coffee, so I banged on it a few time just to get it going again. After ten minutes of a whistling solo the coffee maker beeps abruptly bringing me out of my wind concerto and over to the pitcher to get the daily dose of caffeine one needs if they wake up at 7am every morning for work.

         The rest of the building was silent. Pretty peaceful unlike later in the day where everyone is running around like they’re trying to get someone to the moon in a day. BigBro cameras were the only thing making a noise at the moment buzzing as they scanned the areas. I inspected one that has been fizzling in and out just outside the dining area. It needs to be tweaked soon. It has been two weeks its been doing that. Maybe I’ll tackle it after I do something nice for my bosses. Besides give them more paperwork to fill out. Today is going to be slow and boring, so why not give them some encouragement.

   I turned to read the clock on the microwave.

7:45am

        “Crap, Pritchard will be here soon.” I hastily dig through the cupboard to find his mug which had the infamous Nucl3arSnake logo drawn on it. I did that for him since he was getting vexed at people stealing his mug, 'Just put my name on it or draw a logo on there or SOMETHING so they’ll know not to take it.’ He frantically said a few months ago.

      I’ve been with SI since they started hiring advanced security back in 2026 in January and Pritchard joined in just at the end of July of the same year. He is the very same way today as he was a year ago, annoyingly snarky and dashingly clever. He’s recently been opening up a little more to me. Considerably everyday actually, I’m quite honoured.

      Looking back at the mug and out of my day dream I look at the drawing again. It wasn’t the best and was quickly squiggled on, I’ll just put it on my to-do list to fix later. I filled the mug with hot coffee, spilling some on my hand in the process and opened the fridge to find the vanilla coffee creamers. It’s never another flavour is it. Hesitating a moment to think about two creams or three. Three of course, he has a sweet tooth and man he can be so cranky in the morning.

7:50am

          I was about to book it with the coffee to his office until more hot liquid touched my hand. “Geez!” I politely cursed to the nonexistent audience that I write to while grabbing a small tea plate to put over the mug and run towards the Tech Lab. Almost tripping on the stairs going up, I safely managed to open the door with my free hand and speed walk inside to set the plate and coffee next to the computer. The only reason I know the code to his office is so I can make sure the cameras are facing the proper direction…and he secretly enjoys my late-night company, but he’s too proud to admit it.

    The little Korean vacuum cleaner beeped at my presence upon entering.

7:55am

      I hear his motorcycle rumbling underneath my feet even from the second floor. I quickly leave the office accidentally squishing the bot that followed me out the door. “Sorry buddy, you can’t come with.” I gently move it back in the office with my foot and close the door. Soft thumps can be heard from the bot and from the nearby stairs. I make a 180° in my tracks and take the scenic route to the stairs to avoid him for multiple reasons. Peering around the corner, I check to make sure he’s in his office before proceeding downstairs.

      Now back in the dining area I take my coffee and go to my own office to begin a long and bland day. “Wait, I forgot Adam’s coffee.” I breathed in then clumsily got out of the Jetson chair and went kitchen bound, again. Finding the only other clean mug and /carefully/ filling it this time. Two creams, two sugars. I grabbed another small plate to hold the lava hot liquid in the mug then hurried onwards up an extra flight of stairs and to his office. “Oh geez,” I forgot his code… 0451…1723…? I only have one entry left. Do I risk the alarm system going off and having an even scarier morning Francis? Or do I just ask him…5375. “Oh thank god,” the door opened to reveal a very hot and humid office and a slightly dishevelled and sleeping Adam. He must have left his humidifier on by accident. I didn’t even realize he didn’t leave work last night either. I set the coffee on his desk and poked the cactus on my way out. They thrive off of negligence I heard.

      Now finally in my office there’s a stack of paperwork I have to get to and a camera to fix later.

6:15pm

    The fucking alarm system went off on the first floor. Where the café is with the busted camera of course. When I got to the area, Adam was already down there checking out the scene for clues as to why the alarms were going off.

All of the workers except for Francis, Adam, and I have evacuated the building to safety protocols. A walking turret was stalking about looking for the intruder that it will never find because there are none.

    “What the hell is going on Jensen?”

    “I might ask you the same thing since you have all the camera feeds in /your/ office, Francis” Major emphasis on his name.

    “Well-”

    “It’s not my division.”

    “Damnit Jensen it /is/ a part of your division! You are a part of our security, tech or not!”

I figured I should do something before their quarrelling turns violent, so I disabled the bugged cameras making the alarm system shut off.

    “Finally, could this day have anymore interruptions!” Francis’ ponytail swished as he walked off. How cute…I didn’t realize I was staring until Frank spoke up.

    “And thanks (y/n) for doing something right unlike /some/ other people.” he glared at Jensen then disappeared up the stairs and probably to his office.

    “Thanks (y/n), seriously. Im sure he was about to have a seizure from restraining himself from punching me.”

    “Pfft, you’re welcome, but y’know he’s not as bad as people think he is.”

    “Could be, but you have also been working with him and the company for quite some time. He knows you.”

    I shrugged then walked back to my office broken camera in hand, “Maybe so.”