I'd pretty much given up on DA, I admit.

The scanner has long been burried under a pile of my Mother-Dearest's rubish. The old tablet lacks stylus have been seperated since 1997, and while I thought I would get a tablet this year, my father dubbed them to be both too expensive and a waste, as apparently I never do any sort of art whatsoever.

Which is amusing. He doesn't look through my notebooks, my textbooks, OR my sketchbook, does he?

It's okay, I suppose. In the end. I've got a growing well of dispair when I'm forced to draw, mostly because I can't get over Other-Caroline laughing and screaming at me: "No, bitch! You'll never be an artist! You'll never do anything worthwhile with your life unless you start studying diplomacy and philosophy! Your writing is amaturish and disjointed. Your artwork is crude and unsatisfactory."

It vexes me.

So I put aside, with a cold and cruel heart, the part of me that is enamoured with art. That screams to bring pencil to page, mouse to digital canvas, and create. My sole creative output has been the humor in my life, and the small bit of writing I perform online, as well as the doodles that my fingers automatically trace.

The doodles are always there, I tell Other-Caroline, who looks at me as though I seriously lack sanity. I just define them. The doodles are there in the benches at the pews in the funeral. In the dots on the ceiling. In the panneling of the basement where I have been sleeping.

And yet she tells me that I cannot see, that I have no talent. That when that damnable lead scratches the paper, all that flows are mediocre creations, because Caroline, she says, you are a girl who cannot make up her mind who she is and what she wants.

But I cannot deny this. My fingers have been broken, my lead has snapped, my paper has been torn. My inks and paints have been splattered, my scanner burried, my tablet a relic of a bygone era and no longer capible of working.

Perhaps it is emo of me to admit that my artistic capibilities are crippled by my burning desire to see it all, do it all, make it all. That I will never be an artist because of this.

But blast it all to hell, I can try. My art is fine when I start from a chaotic nothing. And, by god, if that's how it's gotta be, it'll be that way.

Let there be art, Artistic-Caroline spoke. And there was.

And it was good.