cheriann · (has · no · native · tongue)

I've just had so many boyfriends decide to pick up and leave me for their ex's that now, though I've never really been the jealous type, seeing his ex begin to talk to him again makes me feel like my heart is imploding.  Though he's said he can't stand her, he dislikes her, can't believe he ever dated her, etc, I find no comfort, as that's exactly what so many of my exes had said about their exes before leaving me for them or cheating on me with them.  That's not to say I think that he will cheat.  It's just that I can literally feel my heart devouring itself when I see what can only be interpreted to me as a pattern coming full circle yet again.  And it's not like I can take solace in him having told me he wants to be with me forever or wants to get married as I've heard those things from others in my past as well.  And I can't take solace in the fact that this ex of his has a boyfriend, because that's been the situation in the past as well.  So I'm just struggling to maintain my calm.  Deciding who he talks to is entirely his right.  But how I feel is my right. 

I'm thinking of giving up on PCC.  Ian's got his own comic coming up that will probably be better, and will probably get way more popular, way more quickly.  We set up a table for PCC at the Philly Alt Comic Con and none of our friends bothered to show.  We shoveled over money for a table and printed out over 100 dollars worth of prints and the only things we sold were one print of Ironicals and 2 dollars worth of five cent Haikus.  I spend all my time re-writing resumes and handing in applications, and working on the comic.  I'm getting tired and frustrated.  Of the fifty plus cards with our website on them that we handed out, we got maybe two new readers...  I'm just running out of energy and desire. 

I think it's just time for me to grow up and let go of any disillusions of ever having my voice heard or art seen. 

Just sold my super cute pink DS lite because I'm so poor I can't afford to buy games I'll actually play on it, and I have next to no money in my bank account for rent and bills.  I'm sad about it because they finally made a game (GTA: Chinatown) that seems like I could actually enjoy it for the DS if it didn't cost 40 fucking dollars. 

The webcomic is going back on hiatus again because I have to work on a painting that I really should have charged WAY more for, and then do a bunch of graphics design work for one of the most fickle men in the world (and when he picks a design he likes for more than five minutes, I'll have to paint it on the front and back of a gigantic effing sign)... again for a much lower price than the work is worth because I'm desperate. 

This week I have to get prints made of my photographs so I can try desperately to sell them at a cultural festival in Gloucester City...

I'm burning out, fast.  I need a good, regularly paying job that gets be home before 8 pm and allows me enough time to work on the comic, and other art at my own pace... 

So yesterday was a nightmare.  I got a letter from Stockton about the alumni association and choosing representatives for the classes to organize reunions and the such.  Last week I was messaged about a cluserfuck in power transferrance for the Art Club, and for months I've been getting emails from student activities advisers and such because they haven't updated their records for club presidents and things...  YESTERDAY, I was at Wendy's with Ian and my ex came in.  The ex who fucked people while we were supposed to be in an exclusive relationship.  The ex who went down on a guy at a party that I was fucking at...  The ex who dumped me a week after I put my dog to sleep, and just five hours after saying he loved me, was in love with me, and wanted to be with me forever.  The ex who mind fucked the shit out of me during and after the relationship. The ex who, after leaving me, took all our mutual friends, told them some crazy made up bullshit and made them all think that I was either still hung up on him, a crazy fucking bitch, or both.  Yea, that one.  He came into the Wendy's with this girl who, throughout our relationship he had told me he had a thing for, he thought was hot, and in retrospect, he most likely fucked while I was at college.  Then I saw a fuckton of DHS alumn in the parking lot and whatnot on the way out.  It makes me sick that I still live so close to my home town, since I hate about 95% of the people I used to go to school with.  It makes me not want to leave my home.  I just don't want anything to do with all the petty bullshit anymore.  My whole life I said I was going to move away and leave Delran.  Now, after going to college and hour and a half away, I'm back in Riverside... Which is only one town over from the shithole I grew up in.  It really disgusts me when I think about how often I'm going to have to see ghosts from my high school past. 

We are in our twenties. One of us is a writer/musician. The other is an artist. What's your excuse?

Do you have your own bowling alley? Do you have a trampoline which you use inside your apartment? Do you take part in Civil War reenactments? Is your favorite pass-time something which involves repeatedly dropping cinder blocks? Do you have regularly scheduled fist fights with a gorilla set amongst a fireworks spectacular display? Do you have a virtual reality combat simulator which uses real grenades for audio ambiance? Do you like to tie lifting weights to you shoes and pretend you're a giant monster, destroying a town? Are you trying to create the first ever music album composed entirely of thudding, stomping, bangs and repetitive creaking floor boards (which you chose to creak for more than forty minutes at a time)?  Growing up, were you told that the only way to make a door close was to slam it so hard that your neighbors' windows rattled almost right out of their frames? May I ride your pet moose? It's only fair since I have to listen to it barreling around your apartment every moment that you are home.

 We really like knowing when you're home, just by thinking, "has it been quiet for more than one minute," and if the answer's yes, you're out.  We also like knowing the moment you return by hearing you slam the door so hard it would jar someone from a comatose sleep and then thundering up the steps.  It's so very charming that you do that just to let us know that you're right upstairs in case we need anything.  Oh and thanks for always moving our door mat two feet to the right.  It was a mystery at first.  We thought it was the mailman for the longest time.  Until we fixed it Saturday night and then found it askew Sunday evening.  Not that we mind moving two feet back to the left again every day.  We just can't fathom what it is you need it two feet to the right for.  Tell you what, if you can go one day without making pointless noise, without waking us at 4 am, we'll buy you your very own mat that you can keep two feet to the right of ours. 

Oh, and thanks for flooding our bathroom. That was a really nice touch. Just the welcome present we were hoping for when we moved into the building. And then the letter you sent us about our TV being too loud, when we always have it so quiet that we need the closed captioning on so we can understand what's happening... that was so very thoughtful of you. Not hypocritical or arrogant at all.  Remember when you went on that four day trip with that kid in his late teens/early twenties (who we're assuming is your son, because otherwise, you're a creep as well)?  Those were the best four days of our lives in this apartment... except that your "son," much like you, parked rather douchishly on the white line (or rather, over and past it) between your spot and ours in the parking lot, making entry into the passenger side of our car next to impossible.  We really enjoyed the daily challenge of squeezing in and out of the passenger side of the car (since the spots are so small, that for us to move over enough to have room to enter and exit freely, we'd have to park half in the other spot as well). 

You're just a really awesome neighbor, Upstairs Guy.  And the only reason I haven't shared your full first and last name here is because you're so awesome, I don't want people to try to take you away from us... I also don't want you to sue us for getting you stalkers who want desperately to be your friend, after reading how amazing you are.

Love,
Your not at all angry, fed-up, or tempted-to-punch-you-in-the-back-of-your-head, neighbors.

Pictures of Crying Children, my webcomic, had a table at the first ever Philadelphia Alternative Comic Convention on September 13th, 2009. The table didn't cost much and we decided it was the perfect chance to get more readers, so we bought a table, had some prints made, set up a 5 cent haiku station, and got to work.
So at the convention, we learned a few things. First, not five minutes after setting up shop, we learned that even the smallest of comic conventions are not immune to seriously rank, god-awful nerd BO. Second, we learned that the fastest way to make friends at a convention, as a vendor, is to be in need of supplies, or have supplies that others don't. Coming through with some double-sided tape, paperclips or scissors will make an instant friend out of your in-need neighbor. We also learned that when we're being entirely serious, and passing a note about said BO, to new-comers, the new-comers think we're being silly and outrageous and start to love us for this.
We also had the misfortune of encountering one really scary racist man, who angrily flipped through our comic prints while ranting about Jews and Blacks (his words, not our ours). We smiled and nodded and as he walked away, thanked god that our address and phone numbers weren't on the card we gave him before we realized how borderline Son of Sam he was.
We also met lots of cool people. Very cool artists and writers. We discovered some new (to us) comics that we're now super excited to know about. We also learned that there are A LOT of couples doing comics/webcomics together. Who would have guessed? We walked around and met some really cool vendors. We sat next to Cyn and Tannor, who are both artists, and their table which was set up for Cyn's really funny comics. Her webcomic can be found here: http://no-talent-hack.livejournal.com/18434.html

To catch everyone who actually reads this journal up, I've graduated college -woo! go me! And I've been living in Riverside with Ian Douchestrom, as I've taken to calling him, my super awesome boyfriend, and the writer for the webcomic.

If I'll actually stay on top of this LJ is a little hazy at this point, but I'll try.

Check out the webcomic:
picturesofcryingchildren.blogspot.com
cryingchildren.deviantart.com
twitter.com/cryingchildren

see my regularly kept blog:
http://todaytomorrowandtuesday.blogspot.com/

webcomic: http://picturesofcryingchildren.blogspot.com/
my regularly-kept blog: http://todaytomorrowandtuesday.blogspot.com/

Last weekend was lovely.  Friday, Ian and I went to the Renault Winery, the Edwin B. Forsythe Wildlife Refuge, and Red Robin.  Then we went back to Delanco where we lounged about for pretty much the remainder of the weekend.  Sunday, we went to his parents' for dinner, which was delicious, as always.  All in all, a splendid few days, with some fun photos(click here to see them).

Now, I'm looking at the last week of my college education.  It's kind of an epic journey, really.  I've come so far and struggled quite a bit to do so, but I'm a stronger person for it.  I picked up my year book and saw the "Congratulations from Family and Friends" section.  To my surprise, my mother was notified about this and submitted something:

Being that I've always looked up to my mother, and I've never had any hesitation in telling others that she is my hero, the last line made me full on cry.

I think that once I finish all my work for the semester, the realization of the fact that my academic career is coming to an end will really hit me. And then I can hit the streets searching for a job and a place to live.  In the mean time, I'm still stuck in student mode...  Soon though, just one painting and two classes from now, I'll be finished with this chapter of my life.

School's over in two weeks. I'm graduating, but have decided not to walk. I sold off all my ceremony tickets. I'm done just about all my class work apart from adding citations to and printing out my thesis, and finishing the painting and accompanying power point.

Ian and I are shopping for apartments and, if all goes the way I hope, we'll be moving in together at the very end of May or start of June.

I'm looking at possibly working as a substitute teacher for a while. Apart from that, I literally have no idea what I'll be doing with my time after I graduate.

This Friday Ian and I are supposed to have a nice day, at the Renault Winery, then the Wildlife Refuge, and eventually the Red Robin near school. It's supposed to be sunny and about 75 degrees out. It should be lovely.

Trying to look like an employable young woman forced me to censor myself...
I have my own, very clear ideals of what can actually be called art (that's what my Thesis is about, actually). I am extremely anti-censorship. I believe in equal rights for women (and their right to choose), "minorities," and gay/lesbian/bisexual/transgender persons. I think it's a government's responsibility to help (but not hinder) its citizens, and if that makes me a socialist, then I'm f*cking proud to be one. As far as religion goes, I most subscribe to the Taoist philosophy. Having said all that, if you disagree with any of those opinions, I'm not interested in hearing. A square peg is a square peg and it will never fit into a round hole.

I keep expecting to wake up in bed alone- and have it be the 25th or 27th of February. None of his things in my apartment. The bottom drawer of my dresser filled only with my clothing. His guitars gone, his phone charger gone. The number of calls made to and missed calls from him in the single digits. No saved voicemail. Nothing spectacular and simple to indicate the life he and I have started to build.
And my fantasies kick in. The elaborate dreams of walking through a grocery store. With all our things together in one cart. I day dream about washing and folding his laundry. Our things having lived together in one hamper, and then danced furiously together in the machines. I muse over bringing him a beer after his day at work. I toil in my head with ideas of trimming his beard, tying his ties, helping him pick out clothes. My wildest fantacies end in the most domestic of places. My most elaborate, rampant, feverish, uncontrolable dreams end in the hamper next to a pair of his old socks.
I want it and need it all so badly. I feel sick. Ill. And he's oblivious to it. What the world will never know... And my head is a ticking time bomb, just tick tocking away with all these wild, almost violent, strangely sexual images. One after another, an ocean smashing and turning in on itself at the hands of a careless Greek god.
Somewhere beneath the surface, an undercurrent meshes with these domesticated flashes of heaven. In between his dirty boxers and the American cheese in our shopping cart, my rawest, most basic urge is running. Quiet and in the background. Just a constant dull humming of the abstract representation of the words: "intercourse. sex. fuck. foreplay. orgasm. climax. erection. pleasure. intercourse. sex. fuck."
These thoughts, this dull roar building up inside my head, they clash with my core values. They power the machines that wash our laundry, push the cart containing all our groceries. They flicker fast and violent in between the images of wholesome domestication.
And on the outside, I'm still. I'm unflinching in the face of these sordid slideshows of infamy. But I can't help but wonder how thoughts that feel so loud inside my skull can go un-heard by the people who pass me by.
These are my deepest secrets, and I feel like anyone who sees me can tell. I fall asleep next to the very object of my desire. And every morning, I expect to wake up alone. A month ago. None of his things around me. His smell not in my pillow. His half of the tiny twin bed not warm from his body. And I feel sick.