The Croutons of Teatime. Mr. Te-ah-ti-me.

I want to paint more big, curly horns on androgynous boys.
Stay tuned for more dramatic changes in my personality.
Dun dun dun DUN!
If I were writing in Agatean pictograms, that would be a urinating dog.
Just thought you should know.
Cause things like that are important.
Also, my bizarre obsessions.
You may have been clued into the fact that I am on a Terry Pratchett Discworld kick. A serious one. I love Commander Vimes so much my stomach hurts.
And Vetinari. I would almost be a mime artist in Ankh-Morpork just so he would hang me upside-down over a scorpion pit and tell me to Learn the Words. Might even consider taking my life into my hands and be ironic at him. Gasp!
'Every evil tyrant has a plan to rule the world. The good people don't seem to have the knack.'
He can have all the knacks in the world. If he doesn't have enough, and wants more, he could probably send someone to go get them for him.
It's probably wrong that it makes me so happy to read about him and Vimes infuriating one another.

One of the Best

Evar.
Seriously. Not to outshine Lord Havelock *swoons dutifully* but this is...this is just...yeah. Please. The ladies are going to be queuing up for these gents.

Now...I'm just going to go have a little lie-down to recover from the big ugly fib I just told.

Haaavelock

I made the serious mistake of watching this while eating chocolate.
'Don't let me detain you.'
WUFFLES!

Aquarelle Alert!

No, really. Just a dandified androgynous little faun.

I!

Shall not be around for a bit.
Kisses and sparkles!
Busy cuddling Vimes.

Hee

Too bad I only feel this way about Vimes.

Pulling Teeth

You can't know how desperately I want to write. I haven't written any poetry or decent prose in months. I feel like such a failure.
Buh.
It's the rubbish sketches I've been doing. They take all the extra bits.
No one is sexier than Jeremy Irons as Havelock Vetinari.
'Don't let me detain you.'
My brain went honestly to mush.
Speaking of mushy brains, I've decided not to comment on amateur writing any more. Or, rather, writing that people present as creative, but aren't really interested in improving. I've had one too many whingy ingrates who, after I have taken half an hour to dissect their work and discover their flaws, send a barrage of hatemail about how their feelings are hurt.
And yes, I am harsh, and I will point everything out that I feel isn't right, or that can be improved, but I generally will give a disclaimer. Something to the effect of: 'Don't be offended, if what I'm seeing as an error is really your style, then ignore it. Also, the more you write the better you'll get.'
Some of the most unhelpful critiques any artist can receive are composed of, 'OMG! You're like, so talented! I can't believe you thought of that. I can really feel what you were trying to say. Don't listen to people who say you've got it wrong. They're just trying to get you down.'
PEOPLE!
If you encounter a critique longer than three sentences, pointing out things that hurt your feelings, that deal with the material, and aren't some nonsensical flame, you feel grateful that whoever it is that wrote it took the time out of their life to tell you how you can improve. All those gaping plot holes they're illuminating, those are things you can re-work and improve.
As good old G.K. said, 'artistic temperament is for amateurs.'
Anyhow, all that having been said, I'm never giving a critique to anyone unless they trust that I know what I'm talking about, and I'm sure they're serious about their own work. Nothing makes me angrier than when someone I've taken time to review says, 'well, I'm not perfect.'
NEITHER AM I! No one is! My favourite authors aren't perfect! They're brilliant, not perfect, but if you're going to give up while you still suck eggs, you're not going to IMPROVE, and people are still going to laugh behind their hands when you rhyme 'love' with 'above' or 'dove,' or 'blood' with 'mud,' or call your soul black or your heart empty, and whinge about cutting yourself and say how much so-and-so has hurt you and how you'll never recover. You can write about those things, but please, please, please, don't be offended when people say they've heard these topics discussed in the exact same language.
Buggrit, this is turning into a proper rant.
As a very clever somebody told me once (after I presented a piece of wangsty garbage):
"Poetry is not saying, 'you died, and I miss you.'
Poetry is saying,
'Interred below, you live in me--
Sepulchral spiders of memory.' "
Oh. And I am drawing Vimes.
*blush*

Aristides

G.I. Gle

Where has all the custard gone?
Jello just isn't the same.
Buhh...by the end of the weekend, I feel particularly like a golem. Golem must have master.
Golem must work.
Help me, Dorfl!
I want chocolate biscuits.

Linda, Linda...

She is evil. Is Linda Bergkvist.
Also known as Enayla.
Buh.
Go look her up on dA. Or google her.
She makes me so happy.

Vimes!

Vimes!
Vimes!
Vimes!
Yeah.
I'm being fangirly.
Shaddup.
(Vimes!)
Heh.
O. Uh...here's a piccy of Jono Strange. Oyez. Ginger magicians! It's a WIP.

Shiny and Neeeew!

'This, Bella, is the skin of a killer!'
*sparkles*
Teehee.
Guess what, guess what, guess what?!
I read five pages of Twilight by Stephanie Meyer, and I didn't actually upchuck!
Well, it was a near thing. I felt out of sorts for the rest of the day.
Sparkly vampires.
I cannot get over that.
It's fecking hilarious.
Wait wait wait. Look at this!
Tee
hee.

Uh...

Just some weekend sketches.
I KNOW Gavroche is meant to be an underfed little minger, but...but he has a cheeky smile and hollow eyes. Soh. Yez.
As for the other...well...I don't know. He has some rawkin hair, though. And a cruel mouth. Which is always good.
Uh...probably about forty minutes spent on each.

Books! Books!

Oh, boy.
I just finished Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke.
Before you judge me, I've had it for nearly a year, and I only picked it up on Friday.
It's so sad.
Ginger men with long noses. Eep.
I spent the entire book wondering when the Raven King was going to make an appearance, and was terribly disappointed when...
when...
when Norrell turned out to be right.
Damn him.
Old men whose noses are always in books generally are, sadly enough.
Even when they're selfish and obstinate.
Particularly when they're selfish and obstinate.
Buh.
That isn't what I started this post to say, actually.
I love--love--the idea of a man being a book.
Also, I may have to do a sketch of John d'Uskglass in the midst of my many, many studies.
I'm doing a nude after Michelangelo. She is very muscular--one of the statues from the tomb of Lorenzo di'Medici.
I have a confession to make.
I love H pencils.
And I desperately want another tattoo.
Craving some b-mod.
It is bad.
As is my addiction to caffeine.
And Sam Vimes.
Please
stand
by.