I Too Was Bullied, But I Did Something About It

Growing up in the 80s and 90s was a lot tougher for kids than today. We didn’t have #MarcMero to talk to us, there were no such things as #StopBullying #EndBullying #MakeItStop or the heartbreaking and seemingly ubiquitous reports of #ChildSuicide back then, and if there had been such things, I would honestly say I really don’t remember them. What I do remember is being told to deal with my own problems. I didn’t have any volunteer, nonprofit or government funded organizations to help me. I had my parents and my grandparents to tell me how to deal with it, but in the end, the rest was up to me. Nobody was going to fight my battles for me.

And what my family advised me were things we now consider cliché, like ‘hit him back,’ ‘punch him in the nose,’ or ‘if he gets a rock, you go get a brick,’ etc. The problem with all of that was that I really did not want to hit anybody. I was afraid. I was terribly afraid of getting hit and afraid of hurting someone. The root of my problems had greatly to do with my self-esteem and how I carried myself. My posture. If you walked around skulking, your shoulders slumped forward and frequently ducking your head, you were going to get bullied. I had been bullied sporadically, and throughout my childhood. All were pretty traumatic at the time, but the story I shall now relate was the one that permanently changed my life.

It was fall of 1989. I was 15 and in the 8th grade, and it was the start of a new year at school. It was early October, and I rode my bike to and from school, because the weather was still warm and pleasant, and our junior high was less than 5 miles away from my house. A fellow that I was acquainted with lived two doors up from me. We played often, when we were younger, and despite his temper and his tendency towards hitting people, I considered him a friend. We will call him Scott.

When we got out of school on this fateful October afternoon, I hopped on my 15-speed navy blue mountain bike and began the trip to home, keenly aware that Scott, his cousin whom I’ll call Kevin, and another neighborhood boy I’ll call Chris were watching me and followed somewhat closely behind me on their bikes, Scott and Chris on BMX bikes, still the rage in my town, despite the coming of skateboard mania a few years earlier, and Kevin on a borrowed 10-speed.

It was a beautiful day, and I was trying to focus on it, instead of the growing threat of an attack. As I pedaled down a neighborhood road that connected with a main street in our neighborhood, I was certain of Scott’s plans for another confrontation. The day before, he had confronted me on the street, claiming that I had been saying things about him behind his back. While this was not technically true, I calmly explained that I considered him a friend and would not say bad or false things about him. The truth was we hadn’t hung out together or played video games together, or done anything together in at least a whole summer. He was angry with me for some reason, and I was smart enough to stay inside, or otherwise avoid him. Anxiety quickly crept into my mind, raising my heart rate. I began to pedal faster, abruptly saying goodbye to a grade school acquaintance I saw and had briefly slowed down to chat with. I needed to put as much distance as possible between me and the three hostiles and I needed to do it fast!

But sure enough, once I got on the sidewalk adjacent to one of the main roads of our subdivision, Kevin sped up and began harassing me by bumping the front tire of his 10-speed into the back tire of my bike, the gear of which was set for a flatter grade of pavement, for I was not yet mountain bike savvy. This action, though it wasn’t physically hurting me or my bike, really stressed me out. Now our subdivision was mostly uphill, I’d say, and I was emotionally stressed and pre-asthmatic on a mountain bike I didn’t know how to fully utilize! This wasn’t turning out good. Then, Kevin sped up and tried to block me.

Forced to stop, I quickly sped up and changed direction, heading towards the sidewalk on the other side of the road, my tormentor close behind. We quickly came upon our street, Kevin taunting me all the way, half the time trying to pull me off my bike or cut in front and block me off. It was a wicked uphill climb, and I had nothing left, having spent most of my energy trying to get away. I remember making it about a third of the way up from the house, before I had to walk my bike, but instead I tried to run the bike up the hill out of fear and panic, all the while thinking ‘why can’t they just leave me alone?,’ and ‘I hate this stupid bike, why couldn’t my dad have gotten me a faster bike?’ In truth, it wasn’t my fault, my pursuers faults, the bike’s fault or my parents’ fault. It was just life. And it was an event that I was forced to participate in until conclusion, like it or not.

When I finally made it to my house, Kevin pulled my black Jansport backpack off my back and, before he tossed it up onto the roof, opened it, spilled out its contents, and kept my Trapper Keeper. While I watched in terror as Scott dismounted his BMX and approached me on foot, Kevin blocked me from unlocking my front door.

This is the part that really makes me angry. Kevin put his hand on my doorknob, therefore I couldn’t get in, and when I would try to pull his hand off the knob, he resisted. I was at least two years older, bigger and quite a bit taller than him. All I had to do was kick him in his fellas, and I would have been able to escape. Getting back to it, I used to rest my bike against the outer windowsill next to the front door. This time it was slumped awkwardly against the wall, the paint job probably scraped, or so I mused at the time.

Chris stood at the gate of our carport to visit with our excitable German Shepherd mix Brandy, who was oblivious to the bullying. Scott got in my face with the same claim that I had been saying suggestive things about him behind his back. Despite my denials, the verbal threats continued until I agreed to keep my mouth shut, even though I hadn’t said much. Scott wasn’t apparently aware of what little I had said about him, as he simply made it all up in order to bully me. When Kevin finally let go of the doorknob, I quickly rushed to it, unlocked it and dashed in, deserting my bike and my lost backpack. As they walked away, Kevin bragged to Scott, saying he thought I was gonna cry, and what a pussy I was. They all had a good laugh, as I quickly shut the door, for fear they would come back...and they always come back. Meanwhile I sobbed as I made my way to the back door to let Brandy in. I could hear them tearing up my homework, cheering as they did so.

Back then, I and a younger friend were both heavy into ninja movies and martial arts, and though neither of us actually knew martial arts, we collected and made ninja weapons, and ran about our street in broad daylight, wearing ninja costumes and carrying broom handles covered in grip tape as improvised Bo staves. Yes, I was a late bloomer. Go on. Act surprised. I’ll call this friend Tom.

The terrorizing began again, this time with several different neighbors and one fellow from school who lived further back in our subdivision, all banging on the door, prompting me to come out. I had come out early to rescue my bike, thankfully unharmed, though I had a tough time getting the door closed and locked. ‘When will this day be over?,’ I thought. I broke down and called my mom, who was busy at her computer analyst job. As I complained about what was happening, her only reply at first was that I had to handle it. ‘Oh, I’ll handle it all right,’ I sarcastically quipped as I hung up. I immediately ran downstairs, quickly loaded up on ninja gear and phoned Tom for backup.

Tom arrived a while after I got off the phone with him, using the secret knock we had agreed on and I quickly let him in the house. Frankly, he looked about as scared as I was, and repeatedly tried to calm me down, saying he didn’t think it was a good idea to confront them, as I was loading up my ninja gear. I refused, and was insistent that we confront them and that it had to end today. Apparently Tom had called his mother and informed her of my plans, Tom’s mom called me and immediately afterward she called my mom, and before you knew it, the police had arrived in my driveway.

After telling the officer what had been going on, the officer dictated an arrangement between myself and Scott, who had just happened to be on the street when the policeman arrived. The agreement was that Scott was to leave me alone, or the police would come back. Scott and I shook hands and before he left for his home, he was kind enough to help me get my backpack off the roof. While this seemed to quell the tribe of troublemakers, in the long run it made the situation worse.

Things got so bad, I grew morbidly afraid to be caught alone, outside. I would not take the trash out, worrying that Scott would be there waiting to deliver a beat down. I would run the cans out as fast as I could, no later than 9:30 PM and dash back in the house. My grandpa began picking me up from school, lecturing me all the way home, telling me that all my interest in martial arts was antagonizing my tormentors. Something had to be done, so my mom began asking her coworkers about their experiences with bullying. The idea that martial arts lessons were needed was already a subject in our household, given my love for ninja stuff and martial arts movie heroes like Bruce Lee and Jean Claude Van Damme. But now I actually had an excuse to take them. My mom went to three schools, before settling on one in the town next door to ours, the rate affordable, and the staff friendly and intelligent.

I enrolled at American Karate School, then located in Hazelwood Missouri. The style my school taught was American Freestyle Tae Kwon Do. It’s central focus was traditional; techniques that had been passed down for an estimated thousand or better years, and meant to teach discipline, honor, humility, integrity, patience, kindness and balance. American Karate also taught practical techniques, and these were borrowed from other styles such as Aikido, Judo, Kung Fu, and so on, much in the way Bruce Lee’s Jeet Kune Do borrows from such styles. So in that sense, I really learned the best of both worlds: traditional and practical. Our school also taught Point Fighting, a non-full contact form of sport martial arts.

I quickly learned that practical martial arts differed greatly from what I saw in the movies. There was no rushing in, fists and feet flying, fancy kicks and mid-air techniques, resulting in whipping twenty three or better opponents at once, as they all just stood there and let the hero beat them. Martial arts is a deceptive dance between two individuals, and a dance that can easily be compared to the game of Chess, but in the end, it is not strategy that wins, but pre-strategy. Pre-visualizing a technique and executing that move with meaning and without hesitation.

In every real martial arts school, the first lesson is always avoidance, often referred to as ‘walk, talk or run.’ In other words, talk them out of it, walk away, or run away. The second lesson is a common series of self defense maneuvers, sometimes referred to has ‘cross his eyes and buckle his knees,’ in other words a patented Moe, Larry and Curly poke in the eyes, followed by a swift kick to the family jewels. Lesson 2 is used only when lesson 1 doesn't work. The remaining of the practical lessons are often an extension of lesson 2, and include blocks, kicks, punches, holds, sweeps, flips, take-downs, you name it. And a martial artist’s skill is always for defense, never to attack. Usually, Hollywood gets that part right. Usually.

Looking back on it all, I maintain the opinion that firstly, I learned how to defend myself. Not how to fight. The difference? I think it was Daniel Larusso himself that claimed he didn’t want to fight. When Miyagi asked him why he was bothering to learn Karate, Daniel replied “So I don’t have to fight.” This was the same, in my case.

When word got out that I was taking Karate lessons, everybody left me alone. There was still talk. There was always the talk, but our Tae Kwon Do school brought me confidence in the knowledge that I could handle myself in a situation like the one that got me into karate lessons in the first place.

I would continue to study American Freestyle Tae Kwon Do for another two years, though unfortunately I dropped out after getting my third degree brown belt. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret dropping out, instead of staying in and getting my black belt. It’s one of my life’s biggest regrets. In ‘95, I watched two of my class mates receive their hard-earned black belts, thinking ‘damn, I should be up there with them.’

Everybody wants to abolish bullying, but I think that it was a good thing I was bullied. It forced me to focus on the weaker components of my personality, eventually deciding to enroll in Karate lessons, which in turn not only taught me self defense, but gave me greater self confidence, courage, strength and muscles, gave me many new friends, and a haven of like-minded people who had been through similar experiences. It made me a better person in many ways. And all because I was bullied. I think, instead of getting rid of bullies, we need to start ridding ourselves of low self esteem. Get your children self defense lessons. It’s the key to a better life for them and for you.

Thanks for reading. Find a martial arts community near you, and take a trial membership. It’s a great workout and a worthwhile experience. Below is the last class picture I had taken. It is from summer of 1992. I had just turned 18, and had put on around 5 or so pounds of baby fat, largely from having taken the summer off to look for a job. I would start my first job shortly after. I would never go back to American Karate again, except to watch two of my friends earn their black belts.

SLiM

My 18 year old, acne-laden, badass self!

Making Dreams

It was 2014. I was unemployed and living with my widowed father in Key Largo, Florida. I had recently discovered Pinterest and was enjoying the addictive experience of making pin boards on my Kindle Fire. I made many pin boards back then. There was a board for everything I was interested in: illustration, sculpture, miniature roleplaying dioramas, gaming miniatures, fencing, martial arts, comic books, you name it. It was a nice little distraction at that time, and I was only too happy to waste away the day, procrastinating with the app and others.

As for artwork, the fact was I had been working on a pet project for a graphic novel (original story and characters) since 2006, an idea that had originally come to me while I was still in college, and not yet as knowledgeable of the tried-and-true illustrative skills I was learning. The problem with this project was my heart was not in it. I needed inspiration and I needed it bad. I also needed an assignment I could fully get behind. Something that was real, that was me, and that I felt I could actually prosper from creating.

One day, my dad and I decided we really needed to ‘get off the rock,’ so we journeyed from the Florida Keys to Ft. Lauderdale for a change of scenery and a nice leisurely shopping experience. I was heavy into comic books, collectibles, video games, and occasionally making artwork with the degree I had earned in college. Now don’t get me wrong. The Florida Keys are an amazing place to visit and to live in, but there’s just not much there in the way of businesses.

During our travels that day, we found our way into a comic book shop called Past, Present and Future Comics (this is the one on University drive in Davie Florida). There, I was once-again bitten by the miniature figurines bug, when I saw a stimulating selection of Reaper BONES miniatures. Elves, dwarves, orcs, goblins, werefolk, skeletons and all manner of beasties glared defiantly back at me, as if to say, “go ahead. I dare you to paint me.” So I snatched up a modest pile of them, paid for them, bought some Delta and Folklore paints, went home and set to work painting miniatures. In the act of revisiting such a long favored childhood past time, I recalled being a lot better at this task. I also recalled seeing the details a lot better.

I had first discovered roleplaying in 1983, when everything was fresh and new. In other words, it was a long time before any epic fantasy movie trilogies based on an acclaimed book series were a commonplace occurrence that nearly everyone took for granted. I was 9 years old, then. Star Wars: Return of the Jedi was coming in May, but on spring break of ‘83 in Missouri, everything on my mind had to do with the animated Dungeons and Dragons series and the LJN line of D & D action figures.

It was thanks to the unintentional efforts of a neighbor about 4 years older than me, that I discovered a newfound love for the fantasy genre through Dungeons and Dragons. Almost immediately, I stopped going to the toy store for 3 & ¾” action figures, and began going to Epic Gallery (RIP) in Hazelwood Missouri to spend my allowance on pewter fantasy miniatures and Testors enamel paints. 

For me, it was never about playing the games themselves. That was always a little too much for my right brain to process (though I would go on to play my fair share of D & D in my teens). Instead, the detail of my tiny metal figurines and the imagery that adorned every cover that bore the letters TSR was what really grabbed me. Once I bought Monster Manual, I would sit for hours, just looking at all the ink drawings, admiring the work, occasionally reading about each creature. Hmm. Black ink on white paper. There must’ve been some influence there.

Now I had several goblin archers and a smattering of orc soldiers in front of me, some with green paint on their heads and arms, others with painted boots and armor. (I know. You’re supposed to prime them first.) As I stared at the figurines, positioning them into poses of battle, an idea came to me. I remembered that childhood dream to create my own roleplaying game, complete with custom characters, custom maps, custom rules, custom everything. Maybe now was the time, I thought. Yup. Now was most definitely the time.

I knew I wanted to do something that was similar to what I had grown up with, and I knew I wanted it to have a less serious tone. It needed to be that patented blend of fifty percent bat-sh** crazy, and fifty percent dead serious, with (hopefully) unexpected character races, (hopefully) unique character classes, and a dramatic change in the utilization of stats. 

It definitely needed stats, just a different and perhaps more simplified way of going about it. The idea that the rules had to be difficult to learn, and that was the challenge didn’t interest me at all. Instead, I decided to create something that my audience will hopefully find fun and entertaining.

Little by little the ideas came rushing to me, and when they did, I jotted them down. Over a course of ‘ouch’ number of years, the project gradually took shape. The experience of writing, drawing and otherwise constructing this rpg has been a blast. With luck, I should be finished at the end of this year!

Below is a copy of my rpg's first character sheet, hilarious though it is. Cheers.

SLiM

Come Out to the Coast, We'll Get Together, Have a Few Laughs!

The Year was 1990. Having had enough of winter in Missouri, my dad and step-mom decided to move down to the Florida Keys. The newlyweds had previously spent their honeymoon there, and fell in love with the tropical paradise and it’s laid back, small town atmosphere. When they had settled into their new Key Largo home, I was thrilled to learn that I would have a chance to visit them in the summer after school. I was in the 8th grade at that time.

When summer rolled around, I hopped on a TWA 747 and made the trip to Florida for the first time in my life. When I got there, and had first set foot in Miami International Airport, the hour was late, so all the shops in the terminal were closed. After checking in with my birth mom on a payphone, I strolled through the empty terminal, surrounded by strangers speaking a foreign language I know now to be Spanish. I had never heard anybody speak Spanish before. It was fascinating, but the darkened businesses offset by the gaudy orange carpeted terminal floor and the absence of hallway lighting was like a scene from Dawn of the Dead, but with Iron Maiden’s Stranger in a Strange Land playing on repeat in my brain.

However, once I reached the terminal’s end, I was reunited with my dad and my step-mom Judy, dad sporting shorts and a flowered t-shirt, his hair and beard a bit longer, and Judy complimenting her soulmate in a flowered dress and birkenstocks, her hair flowing down to her waist (she was growing it longer). As my dad and I faced each other, the iconic scene from the beginning of Blues Brothers popped in my head (She Caught the Katy), and I put my arms around my dad, hugging him. He chuckled, hugged me back, and said “Hey, Blood,” quoting a line from Ice Pirates, another childhood favorite we’ve often bonded over. “Welcome to Florida,” dad said, and we both laughed. Judy hugged and kissed me, the faint smell of cigarettes on her lips, as she said “I’m so glad you could make it, Steve.” So was I. Back then, I was always more comfortable around my dad and stepmother. My biological mom and I were and still are a lot alike, and we clashed often, as I was growing up, but I always had a blast with my pop! Ironically, I currently get along really well with my mom and I clash sometimes with my dad, but I love them both dearly. I loved my step-mom Judy too.

Back in the early ‘90s, Southern Florida was then, in some ways, as it is now. The sights and smells bombarded your senses, the oceans reeked of...algae, (or whatever that wonderful very Florida-esque smell is) and the sultry late-July air on that night was hotter than any summer night that had ever been in my hometown of Florissant Missouri. I had never seen the ocean, though it was like a pot of black ink on this hot, moonless night. The only palm trees I had formerly known of were in television shows like Miami Vice, and movies like Beverly Hills Cop. Leaving the airport, the traffic was horrendous, and my dad was powerless not to fume at maniacal motorists on the turnpike. I don’t even remember where we ate on that night, but I’m sure it was somewhere like Denny’s or IHOP. I don’t even remember what I would have had.

And I have no memory of crossing the overseas highway and entering the keys. I think I had conked out in the backseat of that old sky blue station wagon with the bumper sticker that read TURN IT OVER, and woke up at least reasonably enough to drag my electric blue duffel bag and black backpack into the one-story white and yellow house, before bedding down for the night. Judy’s cats Duffy and Dickens were happy to see me.

Well, Duffy was happy to see me at least, as the portly dairy cow with huge yellow eyes did a funny little dance at my feet, before I turned in for the night. Dickens was significantly more aloof. She had been abused by the child of a housekeeper, years ago, but I always liked petting the Tortoiseshell because her coat was always shiny and ever so soft, and she often tolerated my affections, though not without twitching her tail. “Prince Imhotep does not like to be touched.” To this day, Dickens (who lived up to her name) was also the prettiest tortoiseshell I have ever seen.

I woke up at some random hour, the next morning, and we were off to one of the many local Key Largo eateries, for breakfast. Back then, Key Largo wasn’t much to see, and if you weren’t a water sports fan or a sun worshipper, there wasn’t a whole lot to do. I had had a phobia of drowning from falling head first into my grandparents’ pool as a child, and though my Freshmen year fitness teachers would make me swim, I was never much interested, and kept asking myself “why does my dad live here?” When I later described the Keys to my mom, I kept using the word rustic.

I guess I just didn’t get it, back then. To my 16 year old eyes, the Keys of 1990 was a just a smattering of old, shabby, rundown little businesses, boat dealerships, a few fast food restaurants, a couple of chain stores, lots of local dives and greasy spoons, sun, pebbles, water, reptiles, no-see-ums, people with suntans, vacationers like me, and not much more. Fortunately I changed my mind, over the course of several vacations.

Because the Florida Keys are incredible! It’s an amazing place to visit, and an amazing place to live. I mean, the Keys are this chain of tiny islands linked by a single highway (more or less), flanked by the Atlantic ocean and the Gulf of Mexico, with insanely copious cumulus clouds, an overabundance of sunshine, and more rocks, shells, trees, iguanas, birds, bugs, and quaint little one-of-a-kind local businesses than you sing a Conch shell melody to, and all conveniently located on the same (approximate) 125 mile stretch of pavement! The overall blending of friendly folks, sunshine, cool breezes, great food, and plentiful shopping spots and activity spots is a totally rad experience that I firmly believe everybody needs to have. Period. And if you get the chance to visit, DO IT! There, I said it. You’re welcome.

The problem right now is that the Florida Keys is becoming less and less of a tropical paradise, and gradually more and more of an over-crowded, over exploited, over-priced, over-everything resort. Big land developers have discovered the prime real estate value of the gorgeous, mostly undeveloped tropical landscape and, with dollar signs in their eyes, plan to ‘pave paradise and put up a parking lot.’

Why is that bad, you might ask? Let’s see. You have natural hammocks, indigenous plant and tree life, gorgeous views of the ocean from countless points throughout the region, convenient fishing spots (well they used to be), and many other only in the Florida Keys things, all of which is probably going to go bye bye, and what’s going to replace it might look a lot like the city, when the dust settles. No offense to city dwellers, but the Keys are paradise.

Try to picture a quaint little beach community where everyone knows everyone, they all shop at the same grocery store, use the same marinas, their kids grow up in the same neighborhoods and the same schools, everybody you meet knows what Keys Disease is, or they at least have a good idea, and you and pretty much everybody you know remembers exactly where you were when Hurricane Andrew, Georges, Irma, or whichever came rolling into town, and like the t-shirt reads: ‘Key Largo: A Quaint Little Drinking Village With a Fishing Problem,” it’s always Happy Hour somewhere.

Imagine your teenager getting to meet the Key West Cookie lady, and when they hand her a $5 bill, she recites a funny little limerick as she hands them a ton of sandwich cookies that you and your family leisurely munch on as you stroll down Duvall street, on your way to have lunch at Margaritaville. Imagine a diverse community of individuals who all chime in when Jimmy Buffett or Bob Marley comes on, everybody singing from their heart, and everybody knows every word by heart. Imagine getting pictures of Robert the Doll at the East Martello Museum, but the pictures you took of him didn’t turn out, for some reason. You go to purchase a Robert the Doll plush toy, but someone you’ve never met before strongly cautions you against buying the toy, so you put it back. 

Imagine touring Ernest Hemingway's house, and visiting all the 3-toed cats who live there. Imagine attending Hemingway Days, as you walk about the town surrounded by copious Ernestos, imagine touring the CGC Ingham, imagine seeing the Jon Seward replicas of Impressionist paintings, giant sculptures towering over your head, bewildering your imagination. Imagine countless sunsets, dinners at all sorts of restaurants, waitresses and business owners whose faces light up when you walk in the front door, and even though you’ve been away for a long time, it’s like you never left. I’m running out of imagines. 

Eating Key lime pie at the Key West Pie Factory, seeing the random roadside Key Deer, as you pass through Big Pine Key, wasting away in Margaritaville, eating at the Wooden Spoon, ordering Conch Chowder, eating Conch fritters, and deciding which business makes the best (my money's on Sharkey's Pub & Galley, in Key Largo), taking the glass-bottom boat tour, visiting mile marker 88, dining at Mangrove Mike's, shopping at World Wide Sportsman, having breakfast at Midway Cafe, hearing the cruise ship's all aboard bell from inside the Key West Art and Historical Society museum, way too many to list, here! Wish I had more items for Islamorada, Big Pine, and Marathon, not to name countless others. Mel Fisher's Museum, need I say more??!?

Why aren’t you packing? Need more convincing? Okay. Here you go: 

SLiM

Learn the Form, But Seek the Formless

So there I was, swearing by those learned tried-and-true techniques of yester...decade? The methods I was taught to rely upon in college. I sat there on a recent post, and went on and on about a good camera, photo scrap, a light box and an Artograph projector, and how this was the only way to go for a successful rendering.

Then this happened. While it is not my very very best, these results, though deliberately humorous, prove that maybe that great proverb from the movie The Forbidden Kingdom (2008) is a better philosophy, sometimes. How have you not seen this movie? Oh, that’s right. You don’t like Michael Angarano and you always listen to what everybody tells you, right? Oh, so you can think for yourself! Good. Be peoples, not sheeples, folks!

Anyway, here’s the movie quote: “Learn the form, but seek the formless. Hear the soundless. Learn it all, then forget it all. Learn The Way, then find your own way.” And there’s another quote by an artist that basically centers around this same philosophy, though I forget which artist said it, so there’s little or no point in tracking that quote down because you get the idea! Moving on.

Yup! Sometimes you gotta just throw out the rules and go! Just burn away at that project like a Roman Candle on steroids! Best is done, they say! Here’s to done. I've finally arrived at that place where I actually like what I'm doing.

The top two piggies were an oops. I revised the drawing with tracing paper and Sharpie markers. The rest is just Photoshoppe. Enjoy!

SLiM