It’s amazing to contemplate the mass of paper-based records I’m going to accumulate in my life.

Why am I thinking of this? Because:

Because that’s 23 inked pages in my hands (two pages per sheet of bristol), and I feel toward them the way many people seem to feel toward their children. This stack feels like an artifact I’ll be carrying around for the rest of my life. The longest graphic work I’ve completed so far.

This is only a step. Here’s what I have to do still:

• Scan
• Fix fucked-up panels (there are a few – I’m looking at you, crab-handed main character)
• Letter
• Lay out
• Get printing quotes
• Print this thing
• Sell it to an unsuspecting public

It’s enough to make a person want to go to bed.

Oh, in the interest of being honest in media and not giving the children misleading ideas about what ladies actually look like, I’m TOTALLY Photoshopped in that picture.*

*True – I’ve got a really painful zit an inch above the spot between my eyebrows, and it’s been bugging me so much that the idea of preserving it in any way bugged me too much to allow. Smoke and mirrors!