Mood: “Huh.” *sips tea and goes back to drawing*
Listening To: Freddie singing cynical songs about how cynical he is, and how he’s in a losing relationship with his cat.
Working On: Glorified blobs of ink, a foolhardy attempt at eliminating my pet peeve.
Services: The usual. Anybody want to collaborate?

But Really, What Happened to Kyte?
A lot of people have been asking lately. The answer is this;
Nothing.
Everything.
We’ve got an exchange student now. For the first month or so, she was incredibly homesick, and required lots of time and effort to keep her happy- every spare moment I had was spent keeping her from feeling lonely. If you know me at all, you know that me, spending time with people, sharing with them, being social… just doesn’t happen. I swear I’d have exploded if it went on much longer. But, now that she’s got her own friends and schoolwork, she’s not that big of a deal. She still follows me around sometimes, though, and it seems like everything I say or do, she wants to do as well. I’m pretty sure that if I said killing kittens was a cool thing to do, she’d agree with me, and that’s irritating, but… it’s getting better, and I’m getting used to it… or something.
And I finally got my ass over to see a therapist. I thought until quite recently (written a few months ago) that I had a couple friends that knew about some of my problems, but it turns out a whole slew of them do.
By the way, ~minaka, and you do deserve a public scolding for this…
If you have questions or comments, you know you’re welcome to state them, and I’m perfectly willing to respond, but… What kind of idiot talks about people’s secrets in public?! *throws dishes* Do you think I want everybody to know? And with Churchboy Patrick sitting ten feet away? Have you any idea how screwed I would have been if he’d have been listening to us? *runs out of dishes and starts throwing knives* THINK, YOU CURVY BLOKE!!!

Anyways, my therapist has been pushing some buttons. Now I feel, if anything, analogous to a bodybuilder wearing a size XS ‘top’. I want to tear that tiny restrictive girl-shirt to shreds, and let people see my beautiful muscles. Hot’s cheering me on. My logical side doesn’t really know what to do about all of this. My sardonic side wishes to point out that I don’t have muscles, except for the ones in my drawing hand.
Incidentally, I’ve become very narcissistic about my hands lately. They’re very balanced and dexterous, and all covered in nice, rugged scars. They’re also rather small, but still strong, so it feels really good for me when I get to hold some big strong man’s hand ^_^
….
Despite all the recent splitting of my personality, ups and downs, and challenging of my usual ways, I haven’t been feeling much better or worse. Different, but not better. But I suppose doing feeling differently is the first step to feeling better, or worse. I’m not just dragging along any more, but pushing forward. I don’t think I’m more optimistic. Just more ambitious. I don’t know if it’s because I want to get out, or if I want to get in. Just as long as I’m getting somewhere. I’m sure you’ve all had that feeling before. It’s strange, but… a bit more comfortable than sitting stagnant..

Yeah, But, Why Haven’t You Been Posting?

BECAUSE I DON’T WANNA!!!
Also, because I don’t really see the point of posting all this stuff, just so I can….

A Tag
Tagged by
I hate you, too.

RULES: List ten things that are interesting about your art and put it into your journal. Then choose 6 other deviants to tag so they can do this too. Put them into the journal and inform them that they've been tagged.

01. I’m a great champion of mixed media, in case you don’t read the “Time, Media, Album, Copyright” section of my deviation comments. Even for the very simplest of pieces, I use several different medias, for no better reason than ‘because it’s fun’.

02. The worse I feel, the more I enjoy drawing. It’s my solace, if you know what I mean, and really, what’s more comforting than devoting yourself to every shadow and highlight of every curve of every muscle on a man’s body?

03. I suck at various things at various times; for example, sometimes I simply can’t draw faces. Sometimes my anatomy is lousy. Sometimes I can’t bring together a composition. Sometimes my perspective is off-kilter. But never more than, or less than, one problem at any given moment.

04. Four does not exist.

05. In areas, such as the lower left corner of an algebra worksheet, where other people draw anime eyes or flowers, I draw eyebrows and moustaches. And stubble. Interpret that on your own.

06. The kind of art I like to do at a given time is directly related to my mood; if I’m feeling groovy, I like to draft. If I’m feeling bluesy, I like to shade. Unfortunately, I don’t have a mood that goes with cleaning up rough drafts, so I rarely get that far with my art.

07. I hate it when people compliment me on my art, in real life. It makes me feel like an idiot when they talk about how wonderful if is, because I know there are twelve thousand and eight things I could have done better, but I still have to act like I actually appreciate their lies.

08. I adore the convenience and versatility of digital art, however… I simply cannot do it myself. This is because I’m incapable of making art without also making a mess, and generally just don’t have fun unless I’m entirely burying myself in paint tubes, markers, used blending stumps and wadded up balls of paper.

09. Due to the fact that females irritate and generally disgust me, I don’t draw them. Ever. I might draw men who have corsets and fake breasts under their dresses, whom you really couldn’t tell apart from a woman were it not for their stubble, but I don’t draw actual girls.

10. I wear latex gloves whenever I work on final projects. This is because I am very anal about fingerprints and smudges on my work. When I put them on, people invariably make statements about anal probes and cavity searches, with the implication of “Since we know you do those on a regular basis.” It makes me giggle because, despite the fact that everybody’s sure I’m some sort of prostitute and/or porn star, I’m about as sexually experienced as your average three-year-old, except less so. Three-year-olds hold hands.

You Guys, I Can’t Feel My Head.
It’s gone. Finally. My hair. Gone.


So, I strolled on in to my hairdresser’s and handed her a picture of David Bowie. She asked me,
“Who’s This?”
This is a monumental event in my hairdresser’s and my relationship, you see… I had always assumed she was the cool kind of lady who would know who David Bowie is. Actually, I didn’t think there was anybody who didn’t know who David Bowie is. Apparently, I was wrong. About her, and people in general. I was shocked, almost even hurt by this realization, and I thought to myself, how could she have deceived me like this?
But after some time, I got over it, and introduced her to the man in the photograph, following myself by instructing her to do whatever Bowie’s done to his hair… to mine.
She asked me another stupid question;
“Are you crazy?!”

Quite obviously, yes… But really, darling, that’s beside the point. Give me my haircut.

The hairdresser spent several minutes looking back and forth from the picture to my hair, a look of utter despair on her face, clearly, thinking exactly what everybody else would think.
Now might be a good a time as ever to explain to you that my hair is the kind of hair that people squeal and lecture me about, often sticking their fingers in without asking, trying to play with it (also without asking) and generally just making the same fuss that the person before them (and the person before them, and the person before them) made. It’s strait, and silky. It comes down to my butt. I can do all sorts of amazing styles with it, and I hate it.
Or I did.
In any case, it was long, and any hairdresser knows that an extra sort of caution must be taken in cutting extra long hair, because if they mess up, they’ll pay for it in blood. Thus, it was carefully that she sorted top hair from bottom hair, held up the length of it in her hand, and hacked it all off in one snip.
From there, it was a matter of me coaxing her through her nerves, as she fumbled through in terror of messing up the details;
“Is that short enough?”
“Five more centimeters.”
“What?”
“Two Inches.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
“What about this part?”
“Six more centimeters.”
“Huh?”

It’s normal for hairdressers to be hesitant about cutting off much hair at once; they can always cut off a little more, but if they cut off too much, they can’t get it back…. the other ‘but’ is; if you’ve got three-quarters of a meter of hair, and they don’t want to take off more than two millimeters at a time, you’ll be there for years.
I nearly was there for years, but… I made it out eventually, though I’d only chopped off about half as much as I’d intended to before I gave up on it.

Feedback was a bit mixed. Lots of people shrieked. Some people laughed at me. Others said, “Oh, did you get a haircut?”, and some people asked me if I cut it myself- a statement which may or may not be an insult- may, because it brings to mind the sheepish “I tried to cut my own hair” statement… may not, because it really does look like somebody just grabbed stuff and chopped, which, given how passionately I hated my hair, wouldn’t be beyond me.
As for what it looked like; ~minaka said it looked like Freddie’s hair, which I think has more to do with the fact that I’m a queenie than because she actually knows what Freddie’s hair is supposed to look like. Incidentally, it does look like Slightly Mad Freddie, when it’s up… and a young Rogitay’s when it’s down…. And like something =Prince-Charles illustrated when I actually brush it.
It rarely looks like anything David Bowie has had.
This isn’t so much because it’s not the right haircut, but rather because I can only stand spending so many minutes straitening and pulling product through my hair before I begin speaking to Freddie (see “Schizophrenia” ) and attempting to style my hair in the shape of a volcano.
Nevertheless, the general public guessed right. Several even addressed me as David Bowie- which, terrifyingly enough, I responded to, in such a way as would suggest my possessing a mixed identity. Now I’m being pressured to wear even more eye makeup than I already do, as well as to begin wearing tight pants that show off my cock. Even though I already do.
I have no doubt that at this very moment, they’re devising a fantastic scheme that will force me to lead a hilarious troupe of muppets in song and dance, probably with a baby.
I hate those babies.

For Those Of You Who Are Still Reading
I’ll be leaving soon.
Not for good, but to a different account.
Why?
I was going to tell you, but I realized it all sounds rather corny…
Let’s just say ‘ Picasso ’ wanted to draw a very visible line between his ‘Blue’ period and his ‘African-Influence’ period.
If you don’t know what I’m talking about….


I think you’ll see what I mean when you see my new account, when I get it.
Yes, you’ll see my new account when I get it, or, you probably will.
You see, another reason for moving accounts was to shake a ‘watched by’ list that’s way fuller than it aught to be. So many people have watched me, then quit, or failed to look at my art after they watched. I’ll be sending a note to anybody who I think actually wants to know where my new account is, and of course…. Won’t be sending a note to a few people who I really wish wouldn’t want to watch me.
Anyways, if it comes to be this day a month from now, and you still haven’t gotten any sort of note telling you where to find me, then I either lost your name somewhere in the mix of informing everybody, or, a great deal more probably, I just don’t like you. However, because there is that very small smidgen of a change that I do like you, and I simply forgot to copy and paste your name into the ‘forward’ box, you can feel free to either send me a note or try to find me on your own.
It shouldn’t be that hard.
I’m not very good at being inconspicuous.

Closing Statement
John Lennon…. I miss you. Come back to me.
I can bake really good cookies. Please?