An unexpected side effect of missing a week of work due to injury/being on stupefacient drugs is not knowing what to do with myself.
At the beginning of the week, I was in too much pain to be productive. Along with numbing the pain, the medication I was on was also numbing my cognitive abilities. I even succeed in losing loaf of bread immediately after putting it away someplace odd.
It had been a long time since I’ve managed to get so little done in so much time; however, yesterday I was able to grasp a pencil and rub some graphite into my sketchbook.
Those who knew me during my teenage years knew me as an art prodigy. (I was 13 when I did this. 15 when I did this.)
Now I get asked, “Can you draw?” or “Are you good at drawing?”
Sort of. My skills went from being exceptional for my age to somewhat better than average. I follow many artists on Instagram and often think to myself, “Had I stayed passionate about art, I could have been this good.”
I’ve become far too impatient and critical about my work to enjoy drawing or painting. Most of my recent work is satire. My illustration from yesterday is no exception:
This started out as a simple sketch to explain to Yann why he shouldn’t sandwich himself in between me and the fan if he can’t control his bedtime gas output. The fan especially should not be positioned so that it lines up with his butt and my nose.
Now that I am in my crusty mid-thirties, my trademark has shifted from being a skilled illustrator to being an accomplished suppressor of my own farts. Ask anybody who has ever lived with me: “Has Laura ever tooted outside of the washroom?” They’re going to think about it and go, “Actually, no.”
To summarize, I am fart-shy and a has-been illustrator.