Live. Create. Breathe.

I make things for fun. This is a photo journal of that journey.

imsorrycharley:

this is how i would describe schizophrenia.

Beautiful. Heart breaking. All too familiar.

(Source: waiting-to-sleep, via sick-sad-alien-boy)

mydrunkkitchen:

BOOK IS OFFICIALLY IN STORES TODAY!! Let the celebration begin! I truly hope you guys like the book… Please let me know what you think. xoxoxo

*** LIVE CRUDE GIRLS - COMING TO YOU! ***

Boston 8/15
http://thewilbur.com/artist/nofilter/

DC 8/16
http://www.ticketmaster.com/event/15004CEE1C03970E?brand=sixthandi

Austin 8/19
http://tickets.austintheatre.org/public/loader.asp?target=hall.asp?event=18856

Los Angeles 8/21
http://www.ticketmaster.com/event/09004CED219E440D 

San Francisco 8/22 http://www.ticketmaster.com/event/1C004CE99101406C

*** LIVE BOOK EVENT DETAILS *** 

Mini book tour embarks to three cities - NYC + AUSTIN + SAN FRANCISCO!

https://www.facebook.com/DeyStreetBooks/events

AUG 13 
My Drunk Kitchen Launch Party @ Housing Works Bookstore Cafe  New York @ 7:00pm EDT 

AUG 20 
Geeks Who Drink and Book Signing @ The Highball 
Austin, TX @ 5:30pm CDT 

AUG 23 
Book Reading and Signing @ Books Inc. Opera Plaza 
San Francisco, California @ 5:00pm PDT

This is a VERY VERY wonderful time. 

Love,
Hannah

"This week on My Drunk Kitchen, we actually learn things!"

I needed that laugh. This video is amazing. <3

Finished! Drawn in pencil, line work and colouring all done digitally in iDraw (vector program just like Illustrator).
Update of the colouring in progress. Took a few goes to get a style I liked, but I&#8217;m happy with it now. Hands&#8230; how do they even work.
Low-res WIP of the new Batgirl redesign. Haven&#8217;t drawn anything in ages and ages, but got inspired. &lt;3 So excited for the new team.

Low-res WIP of the new Batgirl redesign. Haven’t drawn anything in ages and ages, but got inspired. <3 So excited for the new team.

mrmortymortician:

8 days clean <3

Awesome stuff! *high five*

Super sneaky sneak peek at current projects.

I Shall Survive This Too

For 14 years I’ve fought
an invisible battle
a war with and within
my own mind.

It’s difficult to understand.
From the outside, I wear a grin
But the turmoil that wracks me
Is constant, ceaseless
It IS my mind.
Battleground. Cage. Torture chamber.
Prison.

There is no reprieve.
No time out. No room for carelessness.
The minute you stop pushing back,
The whispers begin
The lies creep in
Truth so distorted becomes your absolute.
And in moments you can lose the battle.
Forever.

This is my existence.
This is my reality.
As an adult, I’ve known nothing else.
And I never will.
This is my illness, my curse.
My forever and ever.

I shall survive this.

For every step forward,
I take another ten back.
I shall survive this too.

Sometimes I fall.
Ungracefully. Painfully.
I shall survive this too.

Life’s twists and turns often
throw me far off course.
I shall survive this too.

Sometimes I pick myself back up.
Sometimes others do it for me.
I shall survive this too.

Despite all odds,
Though there is no cure,
I’ve been through hell
and more is yet to come.
The battle scars shall never leave me.
Nor the strength from within.
I’m still here, fighting.

I shall survive all of this, too.

Small painting to turn into a brooch for my Halloween costume.

The Addiction

[TRIGGER WARNING]

Release. Adrenaline. Pleasure. Sweet, delirious, numbing… hers was a drug so physically intoxicating, it called to her in all her waking hours, in her dreams, in her nightmares. She had built up a small resistance to it. For months at a time, even, she could push down the rising need in her and quell the screaming that reverberated in every fiber of her being. But, inevitably, she’d find herself weakened from the stresses that piled upon her, and the whispering of desire would fill the void in her soul with sweet nothings and empty promises.

Thoughtlessly, she would crawl into her bed and reach under her pillow to draw out that which haunted her so, close at hand as it ever was. She stared down at it blankly as she opened it, its viperous fangs revealed. Before she realized, it bit, poison flowing into her as crimson as the ichor that trickled down the length of her arm. Over and over, it tore at her flesh, her motions practiced, mechanical. She was past feeling, past caring, and certainly past knowing the damage she would have to contend with later. Eyes rolled back in her head, sighs of ecstasy passed through her lips. She was lost in a world that far too many knew, finding the only sublime release she could understand.

When she finally dropped the bloody knife to the ground, her arm throbbed with a painful reality. She observed the violence she had inflicted upon herself, and with disturbing satisfaction, her eyes lingered on the trails of red crisscrossing her skin. Reaching under her pillow again, she grabbed a towel, long ago stained by her addiction. She pressed it to her wounds, now all-too conscious of the mess she had made. She collapsed, suddenly exhausted. Caressing her arm with a zealous gentleness, still in its towel, she began to cry for the first time in months. All of her pain poured out into her pillow, soaking up the tears and emotions dammed up inside her for too long.

Soon after, she fell into a dreamless sleep, one night’s reprieve from crimson-tinged nightmares that filled her days. The next morning she would awaken numbed and calmly clean her wounds from the night before. The smell of blood mixed with hydrogen peroxide never failed to sicken her, but it was a stench she learned to ignore. After a shower, she carefully chose clothing to conceal the fresh scars. And onward went her routine, for hours, days, and months at a time in seeming peacefulness. Yet, she was always at the beck and call of the ache within her, the voices in the dark that never let her rest. And she was the only one who ever knew that she wore her scars on her sleeve.