Why I stopped trying so hard

I was told repeatedly about an art show-thing my uncle’s church was having this weekend. I considered this an attempt at convincing me because after pointing out that precious little of my art would be contextually accessible to average church-goers, the fifth time it was brought up I finally broke down and decided to do something with a piece I already had. I worked from 10AM Friday morning to 2:30AM this morning. No one bothered to ask me before my uncle left for whatever the fuck how my progress was coming along or if I thought I could finish it before the show-thing started.

My art, that I spent over sixteen hours painstakingly painting in a program I am barely familiar with, will once again be lost to the sea of shitty fan art and even shittier fetish porn, because no one in my family gives a fuck about the labors of my craft enough to even see what the fuck I’m doing when the work is at their prompting/behest. I skipped two sleeping periods and was ultimately awake for over twenty-four hours for this. For nothing. Because no one in my family knows how the fuck to communicate ANYTHING.

I fucking hate everything and I fucking hate how much of my life I no longer have a grasp on. This was the first painting I did in four years, and that’s been the trend ever since my grandmother died. Four years. And the people who were supposed to acknowledge that can’t even give enough fucks to glance at it and tell me whether it sucks. I don’t know why the fuck I bother anymore.

Nobody in my family cares about my creative endeavors. The internet at large gives zero fucks about my creative endeavors, even if I sink to the level of pandering to fandoms. I don’t want to stop forever, but I have precious little, basically nothing, to push me along. 

Why continue to pursue art when it’s an unforgiving struggle with no reward? I’m just crazy, I guess, and can’t let go of the few things that really defined me after I reached self-awareness. I can’t stop calling myself an artist even though I have drawn nothing new or substantial since December 2011. I can’t stop calling myself a writer even though the last thing I acknowledge as worth being considered proper narrative was written in September of 2009.  I just think up shit. My mind fills up with shit that is never artfully articulated.

Am I really either of these things anymore? 

Either way, here you go, internet. Have this thing that cost me way too much sleep to complete, only to never see the light of day. Enjoy.



Drawn in: traditionally with 0.5mm mechanical pencil
Colored in: Corel Painter X3
Painting tools: Wacom Bamboo Pen; ASUS VivoTab M80TA
Painting duration: 16 hours
Pain of labor: unfulfilled