so today is the deadline for a contest that selling bullets 7 times a year magazine has been entering for the last couple of years and boy am i trucked. you see last year i only had to submit three copies of an issue. well six actually because best overall magazine requires that you submit 2 issues. in triplicate. this year, since we didn't win anything last year, the bastard scaled it down a bit. submitting best feature and cover. who knows, we might get lucky. but it makes me wonder if it all isn't just masturbatory. i mean, you enter the contest. shell out a fuck ton of money and it's all subjective really. in essence desingers are subject to the tastes of a select few tastemakers who really define what is cool design anyway. also, since corporate culture has inherently become an cliquey extension of high school, what's to say it doesn't bleed into contests as well? hell, i know this one art director who won't speak to anyone at a function unless they are important. ida know. i just keep submitting and hope that this year is the year that the bastard is ahead of the bell curve on this crap.
either way, my hands (which i managed to not slice open multiple times with an exacto blade) hurt from cutting illustration board on a cutting matte that was left over from the khrushev administration. my knuckles ache. it's so god damned humid out that i haven't felt dry since i left my apartment. even in an air conditioned office building. even though it's been below 85 all day. oh poor, poor bastard, you'd cry with a loaf of bread under each arm. hey screw you, jerkpiece, if i had a loaf of bread under each arm, it would soak up the damned sweat. hmmmmmmmmmmmm
ummmmmmmmm
yeah i think that was kind of unnecessary of me. kind of really over illustrates my difficulty with the humidity. i think i'm going to back off now and maybe drink a cold beverage now.
—the bastard
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