I learned to say “fuck your mother” in Chinese, “fuck you” in Vietnamese, encountered the notorious hummingbird gang, and ate some delicious home made seafood. I’m also teaching my friend to like horror movies. I’m succeeding at that…haha
a few photos for you guys.
I made a hanging print rack out of bamboo and macrame rope. and it works.
My prints will be for sale, in this rack, at Laughing Buddha Tattoo and Body Piercing after this weekend.
yippee!
Things I’ve made since my last update!
Also, the book is printing now…yay!
and, there are kittens here.
All in all a busy few weeks.
A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table – Samsa was a travelling salesman – and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer. Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather.
One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment.
One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked. “What’s happened to me?” he thought. It wasn’t a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls.
are you a woman who is a professional tattoo artist? we’re putting together a book about money bumps- the lump where your tube rests while you work. that bump on your finger or thumb that tingles after a long day.
if you’d like to be in the book, send me a 300dpi 6×9″ jpg of your money bump/hand, and a picture of a tattoo you did, and a picture of you tattooing.
a short bio and contact info too!
the book will be edited and compiled by Shadow and printed to order, if you’re in it you’ll be able to get a copy at cost once it’s finished.
xox
Until May 2. I’ll be working at the wondrous Laughing Buddha, so come say hello! If you come buy art and get some tattoos, I won’t make you pick up this handful of wasps! At all! I promise.
THE HORROR.
Until May 2. I’ll be working at the wondrous Laughing Buddha, so come say hello! If you come buy art and get some tattoos, I won’t make you pick up this handful of wasps! At all! I promise.
THE HORROR.
One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked. “What’s happened to me?” he thought. It wasn’t a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls.
A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table – Samsa was a travelling salesman – and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer. Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather.
Photo by Unsplash
One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked. “What’s happened to me?” he thought. It wasn’t a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls.
A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table – Samsa was a travelling salesman – and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer. Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather.
A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table – Samsa was a travelling salesman – and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright.
A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table – Samsa was a travelling salesman and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame.By Some Thinker
One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked. “What’s happened to me?” he thought. It wasn’t a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls.
excerpt from chapter seven (?), The Ningen
Ningen are the only cryptid in Antarctica. They’re pale, white like the ice in the ocean where they live. They hve finned hands, and no other facial features than eyes and mouths. Some claim they have legs, others that they have a whale-like tail.
They’re usually seen at night, from a boat. There are almost no photographs of them, and very few reports of sightings. However for the area in which they live, there are few people and fewer still looking into the waves.
The first sightings were during the 1990s, as more people were working in the antarctic. They’re massive creatures, between 60 and 90 feet long. Most claim they have hands, like human hands, with five fingers.
No ningen has yet been captured, dead or alive.
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