Hey, it’s the first ten pages of my mini-thesis from the Center for Cartoon Studies! It’s called Get Over It, and it’s about a food delivery cyclist who winds up battling monsters born out of emotional trauma. I like to think of it as Street Fighter: Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.
I’ll update this post with a link later to the physical copy, which has an additional 2 pages.
“I kind of got inspired by my dad. He likes to volunteer, especially
helping with children. I’m planning to get my master’s degree in
occupational therapy so I can work with children with autism. To be able
to help a child adapt to society and become one with everybody else, so
they’re not feeling like they’re left out or seen as different, that’s
definitely where my passion is. And it all stems from my dad. Also, my
sister’s a nurse, so I guess we’re all just people who like to help
The self-portrait: Swallowing glass chips to stay interesting. Keeping my insides cut so at least something comes out when I open my mouth. Spitting up blood. Calling it poetry. Calling it a performance. Calling it everything but what it is. Self-deprecation for the sake of humility. Self-dissolution to keep them guessing. Playing the same game until it stops becoming one. Turning tricks until they become habit. Here are some jokes I’ve made so many times they’ve lost their punchline: Texting late at night, check. Bleeding dirty thoughts and regret. Throwing up and forgetting the mess. Getting thin out of pure neglect. Check. Check. Check. This isn’t a way to grow up, but what else is there? Nice house? Nice car? Nice mouth? Nice girl? Wait. Didn’t you used to be such a nice girl? (I stole that line right out of the mouth of the concerned aunt who gave me a once-over last Christmas.) Let’s try this again. Nice girl. Nice girls don’t stay out late. They don’t forget their friends. They don’t drop everything and move for the sake of adventure. Nice girls don’t lie in the middle of the street and call it therapy. They don’t know how to become ghosts in two seconds flat. Nice girl. What happened to her? Killed her. Cursed her. Kept her hungry in the basement for so long that she gave up and went home. Pushed her aside and cared for poetry, coffee, and burnt curtains instead. Nice girl. Why don’t you call her up again? Ask her where she’s been? Ah, but where’s the fun in that?
The Self-Portrait | Lora Mathis It’s good fun writing like you’re insane