#i'm practicing

[celestialeclipsed]

Steddie 🥰

I'm a writer not an artist okay

[sleepandblog]

i just spent like 30 minutes doing my hair even though i'm only going to bed and i'm gonna wake up with a mohawk anyway

[purezjirai]

I really really want this vocal solo pleaseeee choir teacher pleaseee

[ratfuckerxtreme]

Past week or two's drawings plus my cat who will hopefully be recovering with minor treatment

[classic-cevans]

Lip filler Dean 👁👄👁

[classic-cevans]

Lip filler Dean 👁👄👁

[sasha--nein]

[English version under the cut]

El desayuno, como le decimos acá "las once", siempre fue un ritual compartido en familia: tostar el pan batido en esa reliquia metálica corroída en carbón pobremente reducida al nombre de tostadora—a la que por cierto su función va en mejoría dependiendo de qué tan carreteada esté—,poner el hervidor o la tetera a su máxima capacidad, poner los individuales, sacar la mantequilla y las aceitunas negras del frigider, disponerlas en la mesa; todos a sus distintos ritmos y arrastros matutinos, casi a compases de ochos. Palomino no llena la tetera, vagamente la posa bajo el chorro de agua y cierra la llave a menos de la mitad, no prende la luz de su cocina ni pone los individuales. Palomino se sienta en frente de una pequeña mesa plástica plegable, con su asiento plástico a juego igual de improvisado.

No hay sobremesa, y en su soledad se puede dar el lujo de untar el pan batido en té, de despojarlo de sus migas, de aprovechar su maleabilidad para formar una bolita y después comerla sin ninguna señal de disgusto ajeno. La gente no comprendería su ritual, la gente ve raro "jugar" con la comida; pero a falta de sabor hay que agregarle un tono lúdico a la cosa, para ignorar aquello que falta.

Falta ruido, falta el ritmo, faltan un montón de cosas. Pero esa es la vida de Palomino, y a cuanto a él le concierne, así se queda.

Breakfast, or "eleven o'clock" as we call it here, has always been a shared family ritual: toasting the bread in that corroded, carbon-covered metal relic, poorly reduced to the name of toaster—whose functionality, by the way, improves depending on how much it's been used—filling the kettle to full, setting out the placemats, taking the butter and black olives out of the refrigerator, and arranging them on the table; everyone at their own pace, with their own morning sluggishness, almost to the beat of 5,6,7,8. Palomino doesn't fill the kettle; he vaguely places it under the stream of water and turns off the tap less than halfway. He doesn't turn on the kitchen light or set out the placemats. Palomino sits down in front of a small, folding plastic table with its matching, equally improvised plastic seat.

There's no after-dinner conversation, and in his solitude he can indulge in the luxury of dipping the bread in tea, scraping off the crumbs, taking advantage of its malleability to form a little ball, and then eating it without any sign of displeasure from others.

People wouldn't understand his ritual; people find it strange to "play" with food. But when flavor is lacking, one must add a playful touch to the matter, to ignore what's missing.

There's no noise, no rhythm, a whole lot of things are missing.

But that's Palomino's life, and as far as he's concerned, that's how it stays.

[dandelionmischief]

OC-TOBER Day 27 - Re-design

I really wanted to give P some braids, and modify her features a bit.