like a webcomic, but terribly depressing (and terribly true)

Winter break at my mother's house comes with the added bonus of exciting new things like no wireless internet, which, coupled with my oft-mentioned laziness and her lack of any photo editing programs, equates to messy handwriting captioning my woebegone webcomics.

Yay!



BECAUSE I HAVE NO SENSE OF SMELL.

Se on hauska vitsi, kyllä?

like a webcomic, but with added emphasis on the part that makes you cry yourself to sleep at night

#2's my dashing good looks and #1's my stunning personality.

terrible jokes

My submission to The Coll-egg-tible Eggers Family*:



*I couldn't find an actual website for it, so I'm posting a link to this person's blog post cos I thought it was funny. Does the lack of egg-ternet pr-egg-ence s-egg-gest that the world has been ridden of the Eggers for egg-ver? This both fills me with egg-zuberance and makes me a bit l-egg-chrymose, that future g-egg-nerations will have egg-ceedingly less ovum pun-filled egg-sistences. I do r-egg-ret that last sentence.

Also, why is this on the first page of google image results when searching for "egg"??

like a webcomic, but filled with regrets

like a webcomic, but really more like procrastination

like a webcomic, if webcomics were boning up on their psychoanalytic theory

So something kind of strange happened to me today.

First off, lemme just say that I am not the kind of person who gets "hit on."

I mean, I've had my creepy-old-man-gaze encounters, sure, but I'm probably the only living example proving that you can have been in a romantic relationship without having ever been lured with a pick-up. And I mean, I get it. I don't tend to generate "come over and lay on the charm" vibes. I'm off-putting. I probably scowl. The closest I've come to being hit on is when I actually had a boyfriend and he went to the bathroom during a show and some guy started talking to me. Maybe I should get a boyfriend more often and then more guys at shows will talk to me. But I digress.

I had a midterm today, so I'd rushed out of my apartment and just thrown on a comfy grandma-style Christmas sweater cos, y'know, if you've got a midterm then what the hell, and also I like this sweater (note: my friend and ex-boif gave it to me; does that mean I can't wear it anymore?). I'd put my hair into a sloppy pony-tail and it was doing that wonderful thing it does where it's incredibly messy and sticks up all around the part with these weird short little hairs that never seem to grow out. Also, I had some stress-acne that I'd only vaguely attempted to cover-up. And one of my eyes was all itchy and red. So, y'know, epitome of gorgeousness.



(Ran out of room for shoes.)

Except apparently, yes.

So I got on the bus, got off "downtown," had seven minutes until class but it only took three to walk from there, and as getting to class early would just entail talking to classmates and not studying, I decided to sit at the bus stop for a minute and finish attempting to cram into my brain Freud's theories about desire and mom boobs and et cetera.

There are these people who hang around the bus stops by the "mall" in Iowa City. They're not the homeless people who frequent the "ped mall," but they're just as scary, possibly more so cos I don't think any of them are homeless and yet they all still have the audacity to ask you for bus fare. And, I don't want to sound racist -- though as I scowl-faced type this, I should probably just accept that I am who I am -- but they're (mostly?) all black. I only mention this because I am the whitest fucking kid I know, and though I've found myself romantically drawn to my own share of brown-skinned men, the creepy-gaze demographics have indicated there's never been a case of this being reciprocal.

So I was hunched over on a bus-stop bench, rapidly scanning notes about death and sex drives, my itchy red eye twitching furiously, my anxiety levels only deepening my off-putting frown.



"Axescuse me, can I have some change for the bus?"

I barely looked up.

"I'm sorry, I don't have any money..."

I think maybe I attempted a smile, because my sister told me that you should smile at homeless people because it shows empathy. I assume that this also implies that they will be less likely to stab you and sell your organs to an unfortunate dog lover.

I went back to my skimming.

Lacan... no desire can be understood/fulfilled... desire always desire for another's desire; to be desired...

"I can help you with you homework."

Obstacles... can't have obstacles without desire...

I looked up again. The guy had walked a few feet away but was still standing there, staring at me in his yellow t-shirt.

I tried my hardest at curling up those mouth-edges.

"Oh, uh, ha ha, I have a midterm and I'm just studying..."

"What's yo name?"

"Uh, Erin."

(Sometimes, I'm confused as to my seeming inability to gauge when it would be advantageous to lie.)

He said his name, I was busy thinking about Deleuze and didn't commit it to memory, we shook hands.

Can't have desire without obstacles... obstacle must come before desire; don't know desire without obstacle...

"Can I see you again?"

What?

My scowl widened to a gape.

"Do you want my number, so I can see you again?"

I hurriedly shuffled together my notes, stumbled up off the bench.

"Uh... I have to..."

"That's okay, just if you want my number..."

"Uh... midterm..."

And, dazed and confused, I fast-walked the hell off to class.

I nowhere near aced my mid-term (you don't tell your class the test's gonna be multiple choice and then make it short answer, come on!), but my cursory cramming did teach me one thing: there's a guy in a yellow t-shirt by the mall in Iowa City who apparently keeps his desires in the form of grandma sweaters, acne, and scowls. Unfortunately for him, that little bundle of goodness happens to come with the obstacle of my personality.

like a webcomic, if webcomics made you die a little bit inside

like a webcomic, but with less of the comic part

So the other day I went to the grocery store.

Not speaking to (and thus having to avoid all eye-contact with) the checker is somehow actually more painful than engaging in small talk, so I usually try to disperse a little of the uncomfortableness by going ahead and asking them how their day has been going. This checker answered like they usually do:

"Oh, good. What about you?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
"Yeah, fine."

BEEP BEEP, she scanned some shit. Things were going pretty good, the conversation dragging along at a fairly normal pace. It was hardly even awkward. Then she scanned my cabbage.

"Cabbage?"

And I, having been vaguely daydreaming about this checker-customer relationship blossoming into a beautiful little friendship, replete with Secret Santa gift exchanges and trips to the waterpark, misinterpreted the degree of playfulness in our conversation.

"Yeah, I like cabbage, okay," I replied, my tone appending such angst-ridden, semi-sarcastic annotations as: you gotta problem with that? and it's not a crime, man.

The checker just stared.


"Oh... no, I just can't tell the difference between cabbage and lettuce. I wasn't making fun of your cabbage."
"Oh, uh..."
"It's hard to tell."
"Oh, uh, yeah. If you eat a lot of cabbage you start to be able to tell. Cabbage and lettuce are actually really not that similar looking."

BEEP.

"I mean they are, but... cabbage is, uh, green."

BEEP.

"And, uh, less lettuce-y."

BEEP. BEEP.

"It's pretty great, cabbage. Cabbage is kind of awesome. It's one of my favorite foods. You should really eat it more often. I heard it's on sale or something."
"That'll be $21.52, Ma'am."

like a webcomic, but colored with crayons

like a webcomic, but one panel long and very big on text

I don't know how to draw legs.

(You can see the original here, ideal for those who love trying to decipher delightfully illegible chirography.)

a terribly drawn, semi-autobiographical graphic-short story drawn exactly at the same time as it's happening, on a legal pad!

meet the cast of characters: