Fucking Dammit

R2 in BFOI is 19 hours from over. And it's 8:18 pm. Do I really care enough to complete 2 shitty comic pages? Honestly, no. So I quit. Fuck this shit. Sorry Rodger.

My drawing style is in this dumb spot right now. I hate it. Everything I'm drawing looks just awful.
Ambitions, ambitions. I've got so many plans and no motivation to do them myself. If I wasn't so selfish, I'd sell away my stories. Maybe I'll be a big comic writer when I grow up. Yeah, that'd be fun huh, tick-tacking away at a keyboard until I get carpel tunnel. Maybe then I'll learn how to type without having to cheat and look down every 6 seconds to make sure my fingers are in the right spot. (Oh run on sentence <3).

Sorry about the rant. I outta shut up. But whatever, no one reads these (except you, Ray, I see you stalkin' mah pages, boi).

I need to get gas...for my car, jerks. There's a cold front running a marathon and guess where it's headed next: my back door. And poor Bessy is just above E. Thanks to you, job, or I guess I outta blame my boss for making me drive 35 miles to and 35 miles from for work (Plano to Forney). For that reason, I'm gonna find something else to do, drift elsewhere, away.
Actually, there's a tattoo shop I visited a while back with a guy minus an apprentice. So sooner or later I'm gonna build up the assertiveness to call this guy and ask about it. Because I gotta be straight forward if I'm gonna get where I want. I just feel like a weirdo just calling or walking in and being like, "hey, you don't know me, but I want to be the sludge on the bottom of your boot while learning how to inflict inky pain on your customers in the form of some douchey skull tattoo. Here's my sketchbook. LOOK. I CAN KINDA DRAW."
The only way I can justify being a tattoo artist to my parents is IT'S A SKILL I CAN TAKE ANYWHERE WITH ME. IT CAN PAY FOR COLLEGE, MOM. <3

Sorry about the rant. I just feel like DA doesn't know enough about my problems.