The Hillary Project

mattfractionblog: thumbcramps: hi guys! this is a comic i made...

Mon, 06 May 2013 09:38:21 -0400

thumbcramps:

hi guys! this is a comic i made for a final in my comics in literature class. we had to do a research paper on a topic we’d discussed in class and then accompany it with a comic with a relevant subject. my paper was about hyper-sexualization of women in comic books, but i decided to broaden it out here as well as personalize it and make myself the subject and discuss something i’ve been subjected to in the convention circuit and on the internet as well as thousands of other women, as well as give a cue to thought about how the comic book industry as well as the video game industry and even just media in general (all of which are male dominated) push such ridiculous pressures onto girls and women.

also, it feels kind of silly to have to add this since i hope it’s obvious, but i am very aware that there are men that don’t subscribe to this attitude, and am incredibly grateful that these issues are brought to light to people other than the ones that are subjected to it.

anyway haha i have literally been staring at this for 9 hours i don’t even know which direction is up anymore. thanks for reading!!!

Fantastic.

A Seven Minute Film.

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 16:42:49 -0400

A Seven Minute Film.

Don't patronize me.

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 00:58:00 -0400

I don’t have kids. I don’t know if I will have kids. But simply because I’m childless doesn’t mean I’m stupid or short-sighted. Telling me, “I wouldn’t get it” because I haven’t given birth means you think bearing a child gives you magical parent powers - that you know some cosmic secret us non-breeders don’t.

I’m fully capable of feeling everything you are. Empathy, compassion. I feel as deeply as you do, too. Saying otherwise is stupid and insensitive. Implying that I’m a half-person because I haven’t grown a small person inside of me also reduces me as a walking Easy Bake Oven. Stop. Please, please stop.

I’m happy that you are joyful as a parent. I have no issues with you, your children, or your contentment. What I have a problem with is people who lord parenting over non-breeders because they honestly believe they are fonts of wisdom and emotional depth by comparison. No. Just no.

One of the most important things I've read in a while!

Fri, 29 Mar 2013 17:23:00 -0400

One of the most important things I've read in a while!:

“We live in a world of measurable, glaring inequalities. Look at politicians, CEOs, film directors, law enforcement officers, comedians, tech professionals, executive chefs, mathematicians, and on and on and on—these fields are dominated by men. (And, in many cases, white men.) To claim that there is no systemic inequality keeping women and minorities out of those jobs is to claim that men (people like you) are just naturally better. If there is no social structure favoring men, then it stands to reason that men simply work harder and/or are more skilled in nearly every high-level specialized field.

It’s fine (though discouraging) if you legitimately believe that, but you need to own up to the fact that that is a self-serving and bigoted point of view. If you do not consider yourself a bigot, then kindly get on board with those of us who are trying to proactively correct inequalities. It is not enough to be neutral and tacitly benefit from inequality while others are left behind through no fault of their own. Anti-sexism, anti-racism, anti-homophobia, anti-transphobia—that’s where we’re at now. Catch up or own your prejudice.” - Lindy West

Video

Wed, 27 Mar 2013 09:22:27 -0400

Equality vote.

Tue, 26 Mar 2013 15:10:00 -0400

Equality vote.:

If church and state are divided, are there any actual reasons to not allow queer folks to marry? Most of the arguments I’ve seen are morality based, the foundations of which are steeped deep in, you know, religion. Most anti-equality arguments also harken back to the old, “Marriage is for the procreation of children” thing which (as a childless woman) I find pretty offensive because that means you’re assigning a purpose to my marriage. By that estimation, I am effectively a walking uterus, and fuck you, no I’m not.

A very good way to look at creativity. Thanks to my friend Chandra!

Wed, 20 Mar 2013 09:57:59 -0400

A very good way to look at creativity. Thanks to my friend Chandra!

Swedish Mannequins Do It Right.

Fri, 15 Mar 2013 15:15:14 -0400

Swedish Mannequins Do It Right.:

Swedish mannequins that have realistic curves? Holy crap. What a concept!

It's out.

Fri, 15 Mar 2013 15:04:28 -0400

Wagon Witch’s has hit the desks of those who can make it dance. So dance, puppet book. DANCE.

Whatever, Pope.

Thu, 14 Mar 2013 09:52:00 -0400

I’ll care far more about a new pope when the Catholic Church listens to the other half of its congregation. When women have a say in matters of their faith, they’ll catch my attention. Until then? Meh.

Milestone.

Wed, 13 Mar 2013 17:19:00 -0400

Just hit 80,000 in A CURSE IN CLAY. The novel that will never end is starting to look eerily like it might end one day. Who’da thunk

The cloud was weeping. They all wept sometimes – clouds got sad,...

Wed, 22 Feb 2012 12:10:00 -0500

The cloud was weeping. They all wept sometimes – clouds got sad, too, after all – but this cloud had been her favorite of the morning. It had lazed its way across the sky, creating all sorts of wonderful shapes for her to identify. On the far west side, there’d been a dinosaur and then a train. As it passed over her blanket on the hill, it became a heart, a clover, and what looked like a swooping bird.

But as soon as the cloud floated towards the east, its white fluffy edges turned dark and gray. There was a great flash of lightning before the rains began. The girl frowned at the water pelting down upon her head, her hands reaching to the sky as if she could pull the cloud in for a comforting hug.

“Why do you cry?” She asked, shouting to be heard over the rain.

“Because the horizon comes and I don’t want to disappear,” it replied, a burst of rumbling thunder following its sob.

“But where one horizon ends, another begins! You may not be in my sky anymore, but you’ll surely be in someone else’s. You have many shapes left to make.” The explanation seemed to satisfy the cloud, as its torrential downpour tapered to a sniffling drizzle. The girl sat back down on her now-wet blanket, watching the cloud brighten from steely gray to gold-tinged silver. The sun peeked out over a sister-cloud, and her favorite cloud luxuriated in its rays, stretching and expanding and thrusting its sorrow away.

It became a cat and a fish and finally a great big smile.

The girl had a clock and that clock was very special. Its outer...

Fri, 17 Feb 2012 10:32:00 -0500

The girl had a clock and that clock was very special. Its outer casing was brass, its face ivory with gilded numbers at the twelve, three, six, and nine. It had all the components a good clock out to have – a loop for a chain, the best cogs and gears in its clicking metal guts, two steel arms to indicate time – but it also had something no other clock in the world could claim. Along the top, made of fine brass and polished to a glinty shine, were two additional winding knobs. It was her job to turn those knobs.

People often claimed that time dragged when you wanted it to pass quickly. They said it flew by when you wanted to relish a moment. They spoke in metaphor, unknowing that there was a person whose very job it was to bend time to those specifications. The girl sat in her workshop and waited for the precious moments. She waited for wedding days and Disneyland to propel time forward. First dances, last goodbyes, and kisses in the rain – all of these things were rushed thanks to her turns upon the first knob. The second knob she reserved for other things, like waiting in line, meetings, classrooms, and four o’clock in the afternoon. She slowed everything to a stand still then, making sixty minutes feel like an ocean of time.

Her job wasn’t to ruin lives or deny anyone their happiest days. The girl in the workshop with her magic clock taught a lesson for those smart enough to heed it. All moments – big and small, fast or slow – should be respected for the gifts they are. Moments are experiences, and experiences are memories, and memories are trophies to be cherished. Appreciate what you have while you have it, and savor the slowness in between. Every moment is precious because every moment is life.

Her home was a toadstool between Millsbury and Ash, her closest...

Thu, 16 Feb 2012 16:25:00 -0500

Her home was a toadstool between Millsbury and Ash, her closest friend the ant named Zeus. She lived in a sliver of shadow beneath the Old Oak Tree where the rest of the Tinies dared not dwell. There were critters and crawlies and cats about, but she knew no fear. By the acorn shield upon her back, by the thorn she wielded as a weapon, she would protect all in her charge for she was the guardian and bravest of them all.

It was Thomas the Tiny who heralded the danger, the ferocious wasp they’d come to call Sting. Sting had cornered two of the wee ones in the grass blade orchard, trying to impale them with his great brute stinger. And so it was that she mounted her faithful steed, kicking her heels into Zeus’s sides and leading him to war.

She heard the wasp before she saw him, the huzzing buzzing of his flippy flap wings ruffling her hair. She foisted her acorn and readied her thorn, her voice bellowing for blood. Zeus charged into battle, his feet skidding through the late spring dew. Sting whirled upon them both, malice glinting in his black wasp eyes. He dove for her heart with an ear-shaking BUZZZZ, and she braced her body for impact, her shield secured to take the brunt. The stabber narrowly missing her tender, purple flesh, sliding off the acorn with a sibilant hiss. With a prayer to the Tiny God of Valor, she brought her thorn down, cutting across the demon bug’s lance. The beast screeched in anguish as his weapon snapped in twain, his once-great stinger now useless upon the ground.

Sting flapped his wings and soared for the skies, bursting through the green canopy overhead to flee for his life. She lifted his broken lance and praised Valor, beseeching her for Her blessings on the morrow. For all that the danger was vanquished today, she knew in her heart that Sting would return.

And she would be ready for him.

He found inspiration in the bottom of his glass. It was nestled...

Thu, 16 Feb 2012 15:25:00 -0500

He found inspiration in the bottom of his glass. It was nestled between abject self-loathing and a wistfulness he should have abandoned long ago. Life was hardest on the dreamers.

His mouth was sour — booze and regret doing a smoky tango across his tongue — and he wondered if his teeth were always this smooth or if the alcohol had just burned everything else away. She brought him another drink, “on the rocks and served with a splash of sass,” she said, shaking that ass with a wink and a smile. He wanted to believe it was for him, not to fill the tip jar at the end of the counter. It could have been both, he told himself, but that was his dreamer side talking, serving up some bullshit with a side of hope and loneliness.

He drained the glass, he watched her polish the bar. He pulled out a hundred dollar bill and left it for a forty-seven dollar tab. ”Keep the change, Jilly,” he said. What he should have said was “I love you.”