Boredom Sketches

Starting after we moved back to America, I've had a problem of falling asleep during the church services my extremely Christian family attended.

This problem was solved when my older sister gave me one of her sketchbooks to draw in. It's now long gone, but ever since then, I've had the habit of stealing notebooks from the pews at church, and sketching in them to keep myself awake. Sometimes developing concepts for my various creations, sometimes visual art for art's sake.

I've now started digitizing them. There are too many to display on this site, so below I've curated some of my personal favorites.

Bloated musical face in pieces of laughing technology. Buzz.

Baby bird opens the sticky mouth between it's legs to the world, breathing in the stale detrius of Pele's tears through the leathery bubbles of it's mechanical mask. May it's oscinine nature be freed from the vines in it's spine.

A slightly-emo fellow with massive dark eyes stares at you while you kill time deciding what clock to buy.

You should drink some water, most aren't getting enough. The pipes of your body run dry after running to your eyes.

Wow! Martial Law! Death by doggy collar will of the wisps who procreate that feeling of needles in your chest.

Still-sitting gelatin-driven nightmare, obedient as always.

A stone tree after girls stone mind, heart argues off. Rolling hills.

Speaking of stone minds, how's this? All of the pipes and circuts and moons and eyes come together as one 'ole.

Self portrait from the future. I hope.

Self portrait from the past. Not fully realized, and much worse at drawing. YES THIS IS A CLOSETED TRANS GIRL METAPHOR.

An angel waits for the bus in The Middle of Macedonia, eagerly waiting to fucking stalk my sister and daddy.

sometimes i wish my entire life wasn't fucking horrible and worthless so i could be one of those girls with the bubbly energetic personalities

An all-American man, the last one, the last true, real, red-blooded American. A titan-ium vulture of culture, ready to fuck shit up.

Underground, below your creator's primary works, you and ya homies still mean something.

A large structure in a desert, hole-ridden head resembles a bird, boat-like torso riddled with eyes.

A bird getting baptized under the flow of french fries and soda.

A fragmented alien warrior, stuffed into his helmet, cries under the moon for reasons I didn't ask him for.

Y'all need to give. Without understanding. Sunlight and dead leaves.

No more worlds like this, no more days like that. Lipstick smeared over the Archangel.

More recently, I took an introductory art class at the local community college, and as a requirement I had to get an actual sketchbook! So I started bringing that to boring places with me to doodle in, rather than the shitty flimsy pewbooks. Here are a few results of that:

An obsidian magician weaves two flowers for two sisters, each a fitting opposite for that sister's personality.

He watches his crops grow as his script scrolls through his claws and rears it's ugly head above his kind-hearted head. Also he has some sick ass robot weapons for hands.

Covet thy neighbor's heart in the scrapyard.

Cybergoblin! He's doing his best to smile, despite his fucked lips and half his head consumed by metal, his remaining polka-dot eye shines with playful love of the world.

Serving cunt with every atom in the universe.

The quiet peace of a clockwork woman.