I got bored and doodled the following picture at the coffee shop yesterday. Unfortunately, the scanner I'm using isn't good enough to pick up ANY of my shading so it's only showing the ink job. Which, of course, means it looks a lot worse than it actually is.

As I was drawing, I was approached by a lot of interesting people. One of which said he was a Spanish artisan and he told me that if I had better self esteem it would improve my art. Me? Low self esteem?

I was then summarily chastised by this gentleman for not sculpting or painting. He was quite upset that I did not intend to go to school for art. I chugged my coffee and looked around for a rescuer(s), but, alas, there were none to be found.

I managed to upload a picture I drew this past December on a commission job. I'll post it below for review. Let me know guys. I'll post more when I have the chance for my art.

DISCLAIMER: This piece is copywritten. Do not attempt to use it as your own - not that you guys would, I just have to post that as an FYI out there.



And then there is this one. I did this in about half an hour at work the other day for a White Wolf game that's being ran locally.

I was attacked by bad breath, fate mocking me, and corporate games. However, it wasn't necessarily in that order.

" I *like* being tragic, Ma. I learned it from you."

First, Sam's breath is usually normal doggie breath. Anyone with a dog can attest that it isn't the sweetest of odors, but tolerable and even, during those little wee puppy stages, kind of cute.

"I always knew you were a jerk, but, shit, this is the first time in my life I've been ashamed of you."

Today it was potent. I swear something crawled in his mouth, died and then proceeded to decompose at an astonishingly fast rate. When I caught a whiff of it, I was sitting on the chair and he plopped up next to me.



"As is the Chinese cook's custom, my mother always insults her own cooking, but only with the dishes she serves with special pride."

I squealed, knocked him down and proceeded to explain dental hygiene to him. Apparently, he didn't take me seriously and, instead, jumped up on the chair and rubbed his face all over mine, licked me several times, and then breathed heavily on me until I was close to dying.

Meanwhile, I'm flailing about screeching and (I can't help it) even laughing, but I couldn't, no matter what I did, dislodge the foul smelling beast from my lap until he determined I had had enough and wandered off.



Earlier in the day, I found out that management has decided to postpone informing us of the results for the applications for the potential promotion at work until (get this) next Wednesday instead of this Wednesday. Why, you ask? The man in charge of making this decision has decided to take a week's vacation. Management was also accepting external (outside of the company) applications and interviews for those were being held today.

"Even at that age, I knew I had an amazing gift: this power, this belief in myself, to be better than anyone else. If someone was bigger than me, older than me, it didn't matter. And if they were mean, I could make 'em sorry."

After a long day of frustration, crashing servers, and bad dog breath, I retreated to my favorite coffee shop sans dog, but with an excellent book about probabilities, Schrodingers cat, and Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle (I'm a geek, people, I apologize, but it's just the way it goes).



After about an hour of reading outside and sipping my delicious mocha (two shots of espresso, dears), I'm approached by a nicely dressed man. He's wearing quite a nice tie - red and black. It works well with his...suit...waaaitttt a minute, the little voice in the back of my head pops up. This is the man who applied for the position externally that I'm trying to get. I've never seen him in my life before today at work (spying from atop my cubicle) and here he is chatting me up in a coffee shop.

"I have prayed to the gods many days for you, so that you were not too ugly or too old. (She sees her husband and realizes he is a boy.) I must have prayed too hard."

After a few minutes, we end our conversation and I glare at my book. Thanks a lot, quantum physics. You've proven your point, fate. I shut the book, drain the coffee and get in my car to head home for the night.

It's inevitable that a trip to the grocery store will turn into a battle of wills and wits.

"Now you go feed those hogs before they worry themselves into anemia!"

Personally, I always dress for battle. If I owned a suit of kevlar and a hunting knife, I would probably strap them both on. I would look like a cross between Crocodile Dundee and Stallone with a shopping list of vegetables and fruit juice.



"Dorothy? Well, what has Dorothy done?"
"What she's done? I'm all but lame from the bite on my leg!"
"You mean she bit you?"

After arming myself properly, I have to pick out my battle tank. Once again, inevitably, I always choose something that is substandard. Getting the cart out of the corral is always a battle. I pull, curse and eventually yank out more than three much to the shock and horror of everyone around me.

"Come along Dorothy. You don't want any of those apples."
"Are you hinting my apples aren't what they ought to be?"

Even if I had taken the time to choose my tank with care, it still ends up feebly wheezing its way about the store. It is always wobbling, squeaking or even occasionally gagging on the remainders of some child's disturbing collection of bubble gum that has wrapped around the wheels. Once again, passersby stare in disgust and horror at my third world cart. If it were motorized, it would surely be spewing out noxious fumes. Whereas they have the BMWs of shopping carts, I'm always left with the sputtering Pinto.

"Frightened? Child, you're talking to a man who's laughed in the face of death, sneered at doom, and chuckled at catastrophe... I was petrified."



After retrieving my goods, and always gathering more than I had intended and forgetting most of what was on my list despite it being clenched in my hands, I squeak up to the cash register. Half of my items, though listed on sale, will, of course, be full price and the other half will not scan properly. A line of enraged consumers will gather behind me and I'll remember why I wanted to buy the kevlar I mentioned earlier.

"Put 'em up, put 'em up! Which one of you first? I can fight you both together if you want. I can fight you with one paw tied behind my back. I can fight you standing on one foot. I can fight you with my eyes closed. Oh, pull an axe on me, eh? Sneaking up on me, eh? Why, I'll... Ruff!"

After escaping, with all of my dignity (though surely not intact and in need of much duct tape), I make my way back to my car whereupon I find several run away carts leaning up against it. Oh, those wild, runabout carts. I'm sure every good citizen puts them properly away and they, being filled to the brim with rampaging testosterone, merely scurry away and dash full throttle down the hill on their own voalition.

"You, my friend, are a victim of disorganized thinking."

Many strange and stupid things have happened to me since I left for a mere few weeks. I shall, of course, relay them below.

"Oh, I like this! Yes, this is for me!"



After numerous kidnappings, I taped a flower to Papa San with the following note: "Papa San has repented his violent ways and now seeks peace. He is a reformed Shaolin Monk." I had hoped this would cease the malevolent attitude that still perseveres in regards to his mere existance. I was right and my plan worked.

"Ding dong dell, kitten's in a well, who put him there? Little Mumm-Ra!"

However, upon returning to work the next day, I had found that someone had slapped giant red sticky lips onto Papa San's face. So, not only is he a pacifistic, Shaolin, singing and dancing Kung Fu Fighting hamster, but he is now also suffering a sexual identity crisis.

"Wherever evil exists, Mumm-Ra lives!!!"

Sam and I continue our nightly ritual of sitting outside of the local coffee shop after work every night. I guzzle the caffeine, he attempts to be a womanizer - and succeeds more often than not. I have so far been approached by only three men since we began our nightly excursions (bearing in mind that I go there to honestly get a chance to relax and read without interference. Having a cute, loving dog of course undermines the attempt every time).

"So we meet again Thunderbrat!!!"

The most interesting approach of them all was a middle aged woman.

"Looks like we have guests."

"I don't remember inviting them??"

Woman: "Did your dog come pre-trained?"
NB: "Wuh? No, no. I work with him every day."
Woman: "You mean, you can't get them pre-trained? You have to practice?"
NB: *glare*
Woman: "I have a dog. How often do you feed them?"
NB: *horrified stare* "You need to speak with your veterinarian about the nutritional needs of your dog."

"Looks like I outsmarted you this time Ma-Mutt, snarfer snarfer snarfer!"

This continued for almost an hour. She attempted to persuade me to train her dog, trim it's nails, inform her on proper diet and technique. After continuously reasserting that I am in no way a trained professional and to please (DEAR GOD!) seek the advice of a vet ASAP, I snatched up my things, made a polite excuse and escaped into the night.

For all of the eclectic people I meet at coffee shops, I'm starting to wonder if people find me odd as well? Nevermind that. That is to be discussed or contemplated at another time.

"Stronger than me? Not likely!"

I went to check my mail at my apartment complex this week and was approached by this man who made me regret that our society has laws against homicide.

Creepazoid: "Hey, hunny. Are you nasty? I like that. We can do something with that."
NB: *look of Darth Vader death*
Sam: *Look of Darth Vader death with big teeth*



"Begging, pleading, groveling will get you nowhere, you pathetic creature!"