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Assembling all the art for tnm.n, I’m astonished to see just how few pieces of original art I have. It’s equally astonishing to see how many bloody collaborations I’ve done. I didn’t put half of them in, and I already have more collaborations than everything else put together. Ye gods.

I’m wondering if the JETS t-shirt design that parodied “Charlie’s Angels” should go under “Original” or “Fan Art”. I’m also torn as to where I should put sketches. Should I repost images in the sketchblog? Should sketches get their own category, plus a link to the sketchblog? Should I just sort the sketches in with the rest of the CGs and such in the Fanart and Original categories? Should I post any of the incoherent rubbish I’ve done for “Men at Arms: The Musical”? Decisions, decisions…

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This is a story of good vs. evil, with evil being all-powerful and good being generally 3 feet tall with hairy feet.

…and some kid named Biggerstaff. Nice name, Biggerstaff, no pressure or anything.

Next shot is some ship flying across a desert world, most likely Tatooine. Now I don’t know about you, but I am damn tired of that puny little sand dune of a world. It was the most boring planet in the first Star Wars, it hasn’t gotten better with age.

Now would be a good time to check up on all the amusing Self-Made Critic articles you’ve been missing.

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Hiss, one more day without tnm.n. I hope to get it up tomorrow. I’d forgotten how long it takes to set up thumbnails and pages for all the art! Plus scanning photographs and editing old images that still have “Ellie Rosenthal” on them. Bah.

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Why do I have a mind-block about Tolkien? Here’s the story of my most traumatic experience, told through an epic poem. I think I’ll submit it to Vibrato.

::clears throat::

Listen, my friends, and I’ll tell you the tale

Of hobbits and health spas and one naked male.

Bright was the afternoon, happy the day

as Mom and I studied in sunny Santa Fe.

After days of work, our stress to assuage,

We went to a health spa to get a massage.

Our appointment times differed by half of an hour;

I planned to use the hot tub and then take a shower.

But relaxation? Ha! My plans, they were thwarted,

Tranquility smashed and my calmness aborted.

For after the massage, a soothing backrub,

I followed the signs to the Women’s Hot Tub.

The tub, it was empty, so (self-conciousness away)

I entered the tub in the suit called “birthday”.

For at this spa, that is their wont.

Unfortunately, for me, that would come back to haunt.

I sat there, relaxing, but soon I grew bored,

So I picked up “The Hobbit” and amusement was restored.

A few pages later, the trouble began.

Someone else joined the tub: to my horror, a man.

I was sure of that fact. Over the top of page 180

I’d seen something that did not belong to a lady.

No idea what to do, my mind, it was flailing.

If my clothes were closer, I’d surely be bailing.

In the tub I would stay, for I had protection there:

Refractive bubbling water and my very long hair.

Speechless, I wondered what steps I could take

To make this intruder realize his mistake.

After what seemed like years, I finally made my choice,

Said “You do know this is the women’s tub…” in a hesitant voice.

“Is is?” he inquired, with a casual air.

At this reaction, I wanted to rip out my hair.

How blind could he be, to not see the signs?

There were three on the path with very clear designs.

I wanted to scream and kick, yell, and shout

When the man showed no indication of getting out.

Ten more minutes of agony passed.

I realized helplessly that I’d never last.

I made my decision, and with a heavy sigh

I sprang from the tub — just Tolkien ‘tween me and his eye.

I threw on my robe! And I’ve never forgotten

The relief that can come with 100% cotton.