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grisly ends

and now for the grisly end; original drawing, inks on paper, 8.5 x 5.25 inches.

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Last few days: proofed/edited one book (my collection, Dark All Day) and made corrections on another (a compilation, Upstart stuff). Tired of text, especially my own; reading and re-reading your own work at ungenerous intervals is like all television being replaced by old episodes of M*A*S*H ... which is when you decide that Alan Alda must die.

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Making C nervous with my cavalier attitude towards design work lately, which starts her doing that little hop-hop dance and wringing her hands and saying, But you'll get *my* stuff done, right? Yes, fine, fine. Every so often I try to explain to her that cavalier is about all I have left, since nearly everything I do is paid – late, begrudgingly – in buttons. Or just not at all.

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Walking home from work, I make a lot of stops, which is almost always entirely unpleasant, as everyone is in the same rush. What's most egregious is the way people crowd you at the check-out. This is most often Queen's students, who have no sense of personal space, and seem to think that pushing against each other like stunned goats will speed things up, when really it just makes people like me go slower. But what truly startles me is when older people -- fully formed adults -- press in on you at the counter, piling up their stuff so you don't even have enough room to use the debit machine. And then you stare at them, and they look past you with this I'm breathing out of my mouth right now face, and that's when I wish I was an American, and I could walk around with a machine gun. Or seven.

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More colourful people here. Plus lots of bad language!
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