I have observed that my humor, like my art, comes easier when I stop trying. It was observed today in class today by one of my compatriots that I was trying too hard. Don't I know it.

Admidst several complications, I have accuired a substansial backup of half done PhotoShop projects. I have a Halloween piece which is still just a sketch.. Yes, that's Halloween I said. My PC is buggier than ever. I have homework up the wing-wang*. Finals in a week, and none of my courses have quantative knowledge evaluations, oh no. I have to do a presentation in one week, which I have not yet begun to write. I have evaluations in both 2d design and Drawing Fundamentals, and I have an in-class reflective essay for English. As well as one to write for tommorow. And one due last Thursday, saved only by the good graces of my DF teacher, whom I really like. Unfortunately, my Figure Drawing class next semester entails Sue Bennet, a highly militant lecturer. Not militant feminist , or militant rightist, just militant. She allegedly paints over students' canvases with white if she doesn't like the work. Apparently some of her students are on their third acrylic set this year. I'm still on my first, and my black is almost full.

My 2D teacher asked me what I'm talking next semester. I replied, "Hopefully, Prozac."


My mother has issued an ultimatum. If I don't learn to drive by March, she won't pay bus fare. Strangely enough, my father pays for bus fare now. I plan to enlist my brother and father's help, failing her. I also plan to play the Prince of Persia: Warrior Within, when we visit the US next year. I also want to buy a tablet. One of these things is not like the other.

*And believe me, it's hard to get up my wing-wang. Trust me.


I close my eyes, put pencil to paper.

I have an alter-ego, that goes in and out with me.

Stevenson's throbbing in my head as I pull myself to my fight. "Who's there?" I call, and the room filled with darkness, spins dizzily away from me.

Suddenly I realaze that there's no light, but I can see myself perfectly clearly.

"Ah," I say. "Dream."

Suddenly, I'm looking at my alter-ego.

He wears, of course, a dark blue hat and t-shirt, the former bearing the legend "63", the latter bearing a pseudoChinese symbol I made up, both in white. His long-sleeved undershirt, his slacks, his shoes-all black.

I can't see his eyes.

<>He won't stop grinning.

'What are you smiling for?' I ask, feeling a simmering rage building. 'You're behind on your schoolwork, your artwork, your school artwork, and several other things. You're too shy to ask for a perfectly good job, you haven't played your videogames in months, and you have a crap PC. You haven't worked on your new comic in about that time, your parents won't let you buy a graphics tablet, and you've done no prep for your future career.'

He keeps smiling.

Jagged lines, smug son of-a-

'Answer me!' I grap his shoulders and shake, not bothering to bite back My Rage, focusing it all on him. 'Answer me!'

He shifts, twists, and blows away, like so much dust.

I stand silent.

"Of course," I say.