Special Owari no Seraph Jump Fair cards 

feat. Yu, Guren, and Mika

The Ash Knight (v. 1.0)

Instead of a ballgown, Cinderella is given a suit of armor, and rides to make her own future.

IT’S HERE! My project for @myfirstgamejam has been completed, and with time to spare. The Ash Knight tells a different version of the story of Cinderella: blessed by one of the Fae, she becomes the Ash Knight, and enters into a tournament to win the favor of Princess Charmante.

You can download it at the link above, or here. I hope you enjoy it!


  • things i don't care about:bethyl sex
  • things i do care about:
  • beth fuckin greene

 now i know that look, ❞  her tone was playful, her words somewhat slurred. the alcohol was hard at work after another long day; revealing a whole new persona—the childish glee that marred her features was nearly contagious.  ❝ you look like you’re dying to buy me a drink. ❞ 

In the past I had a lot of trouble with that they call the “freedom” to draw - or, the ability to put pencil to paper and go from a blank page to a finished piece, no matter what the shading or subject matter or composition. Mostly a lack of freedom is a combination of self-criticism, mental health issues like depression or an unsafe environment, and just not having the technical ability to even know how to start putting down what you see in your head. I still have many problems with this, but as I learn how to draw better I make progress in my freedom every day.

However, in my youth, I used to anxiously hope that what they were saying was true, and you get better every time you draw no matter what you do, and never finishing any individual piece and only drawing disembodied anime heads looking to the left on scrap paper would eventually make me the artist I wanted to be.

One man challenged that.

It was Rob fucking Liefeld.

Now, I’m sure anyone who’s been on the internet for a sufficient amount of time has read The 40 Worst Rob Liefeld Drawings. (If you’ve never heard of him, click on the link and come to understand that I feel okay about having some kind of petty one-sided rivalry against a man who draws women like that - and in fact what really put the fear of God in me is that he still draws women like that despite creating art professionally for longer than I have been alive). Now, I was reading this as a teenager, and I came across a part of the article where the author suddenly displays a good deal of genuine anger - passionate anger - over an inconsequential little background detail.

But I invite you to check out that Bart Simpson poster in the background.  Not only is it TOPICAL~ but it’s a blatant exercise in dissecting Rob Liefeld’s shortcomings. He doesn’t have the patience for uniformity or technique, so Bart’s hair spikes are all different sizes. He doesn’t have the natural talent to draw a curve without having it end in a rippling lat, so Bart’s fingers look like butterknives. He doesn’t have the perspective to recognize how sizes and shapes relate to each other, so Bart has an Alfred E. Newman ear growing into his cheek. Rob, couldn’t you have just traced a picture of Bart Simpson into the background? We all know you don’t have any qualms about tracing.

And this spoke to me as a teenager who was a combination of too undisciplined and lazy and just too mentally unhealthy to really work at what I was trying to do, no matter how many schedules I made or goals I set or projects I tried. Especially the part about not having the patience for technique.

So I - well, I became a teenage runaway and forgot about drawing for more than five years because I was busy trying to figure out how to eat (and also how to stop doing things like attempting suicide every six months on the regular). And yet, I always sort of believed that I would just magically become a good artist, someday, that it was in my future, and I was always coming up with things I’d like to draw. When I could. When I had the freedom, the talent, the technique. And I’d think of this article. And I’d nervously scrawl a row of IMMACULATELY UNIFORM |VVVVVV|s and GENEROUSLY CURVED UUUUUUs. (Which is an excellent technical exercise, by the way.) Maybe I’d even make a harrowing attempt at drawing Bart Simpson (who I am beginning to think is the most difficult subject in the known universe - even one deviation from proportion and form and shape and his figure becomes truly inhuman, his eyes staring, his jaw slack, his grin now a hideous rictus).

Then about a year ago (having calmed down a lot emotionally, started going to college, gotten health issues like anemia looked at and so on) I realized I was never going to be happy until I pursued my unfinished ambition and picked up art again in my twenties.

This time, I was prepared. This time, I could do whatever it takes. Like a phoenix, I will rise from the ashes, slightly better than I was before.

Is this a success story? Not yet, but it will be. My art still - well, it sucks. (Fine, I won’t say that. I will say it’s not up to professional level, I don’t yet have the freedom to do everything I’d like to do when it comes to mind, and most importantly, I’m not satisfied with it yet. And I can count several errors in the Bart above.) It’s the result of only six to twelve months of dedicated practice and a few years of teenage dithering - of course I’m not an expert yet. But I have confidence now that if I continue on in this way it will be good. 

And I’ve met one of my art goals.

Is it a perfect Bart? Is it a great Bart? Is it even a good Bart? Are these the Platonic triangles and machine-lathed curves Matt Groening sees in his dreams? Not yet.

But I have I made a better Bart, a recognizable Bart? A Bart for my ambitions, a Bart, even, for my dreams?

Yes…Yes, I think so. At long last, I can say … yes.


Chapter four of Turned Around, coming very very soon!

“Happy birthday,” he said. I smiled as he sat on the edge of the bed. This time last year I had come home to the same bed covered in rose petals; the only birthday we’d celebrated had been Harry’s, and luckily his family had been there to make things less awkward. “I got you this.”

He handed me the small box along with the envelope. “Thank you.”

I opened the card in silence. It was pretty, simply reading ‘For my wife’ and signed by Harry on the inside. I stood it on the bedside table and turned my attention to the box. Slowly opening it, I stopped myself from gasping when I saw it. It wasn’t anything special or fancy or expensive, but I knew exactly what it meant.


That moment in unpacking where you know if you hadn’t moved almost three hours away from all your friends you’d probably have a house full of help. Oh well, the price you pay for greater solitude. 

I have the nicest, most clear  and colorful monitors and at night they are a thing of wonder. I almost prefer watching shows on them than my actual tv. Here’s the thing, because they are these amazing clear GLASS monitors they reflect everything. And I mean EVERYTHING so when I’m at home during they day and it’s sunny out, from about 7am - 12pm I can see my face better than what I’m looking at on the screen.


Pass is knockknock

Let’s keep things simple tonight. Strip poker, no betting. Just plain, wholesome getting naked if you lose.

18+ because reasons. Duplicates and crossovers are welcome because rules are for suckers. Everyone’s welcome because I’m inclusive and shit come at me