1697 Rise And Shine.


I just saw a news thing about a kid that drank enough caffeine in a few hours to give himself a heart attack. People take the substance far too lightly and the energy drink industry doesn’t really care what happens to their consumers. You have to watch out for yourself. In this case Ramon is simply a person who “lets go and lets God” so to speak. Foolish, but not maliciously. The end result might be the same, but it matters in court. I don’t know for sure but I think what he made for Ed is a French press style drink. I’ve only ever seen the exact thing I was thinking of in a Vietnamese restaurant. The think pressed out a very dark, thick, substance that you drink in a tiny cup. I expect Ramon didn’t take Ed’s relative size in to account.

In case you were wondering, my mother and I were left to clean up the Teen’s graduation party essentially alone. The Teen and her boyfriend, or rather fiancé, are useless in most situations. They have no ability to think tactically between them and left to their own devices have no ability to focus on anything other than entertaining themselves. If I were to explain any of this in detail you would likely be appalled by the sheer scope of their inability to do anything in a sensible way. I won’t, however, because I have better things to do than write it all down. It also sickens and enrages me. My mother thinks that now that the graduation is over that it will all calm down, but I know better now. This is just the beginning of a new, fresh, kind of hell yet to reveal itself. My patience for all of this nonsense is far exhausted. No advice I give is heeded, so I no longer give any. My hope is that the dumpster fire burns itself out quickly and that I can get far enough away in time to save myself. Historically I know that I will be dragged into the fire whether I like it or not. I will not be allowed to distance myself because no one else will let me burn the bridges whose destruction could save the rest of us… but the matches are in my hand, and they can’t watch me all the time.

I haven’t done janitorial work in a long time, but it’s not like a person just forgets how to mop. I actually wouldn’t have minded it if my leg were fully healed and I didn’t have other things to do. I actually enjoy that kind of work because it has a clear ending. You know when you’re done mopping. In retail you could do a task put to you but you didn’t know if you were done until someone came along to decide if you were. The persons in question might change 3 or four times and they might not agree on what done actually is, so you do the same task over and over a few ways before someone decides to take responsibility and stop you. I expect we did a lot more than was actually expected of us. The people who had rented the space before us hadn’t cleaned up their spilt beers, or confetti, or emptied the trash. So we did. Long into the night. I actually came home and “finished” Monday’s page so it would go up on time and went back. I forgot a few things because of the rush, but no one seemed to notice. No one takes my job seriously because it lacks the structure of going to a place, doing a thing, and returning. Everyone seems to think this all happens like some kind of magic that takes no effort at all. The time I need to meet my obligations is always the first to get cut. Everything other people want to do is always more important. No matter how much money I make, taxes I pay, or anything else, I am essentially still a failure to the rest of the world.
People say “It must be so great to work for yourself. You can just do whatever you want whenever you want.” No. It isn’t. I’m the worst boss I’ve ever had. I never let myself stop. From the moment I’m awake, no matter what I’m doing, I’m thinking about the comic, the patreon, twitter, and everything else, all the time. I buy games I won’t let myself play, books I won’t let myself read, and movies I won’t take time to watch, and put them in untidy piles here and there. When I’m sick I make the comic, when I’m tired I make the comic, when I was in the hospital I made the fucking comic. I haven’t seen a friend face to face in over a year. You couldn’t handle working for me. I would grind you down so fast you’d be a weeping mess by the end of the week. In spite of all that I’d still rather work for me that any other sorry asshole on the planet. I feel complete with a pencil, or pencil equivalent, in my hand. When I’m working I get to stop being alone and afraid. I’m something other than myself and it makes all the other shit worth it.