Pill

For some men, having met their own mothers is reason enough to contemplate deep misogyny as a lifestyle.

Happy birthday, mom... no matter what a petty parody of a human being you were, before dementia setted in and made you bearable.

Biographical Notes

When I was a kid, my parents used to complain about their own stupidity at having produced me and my brother - their lives would have been sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much better without us.

If I had one of those mishaps kids always incurs - say, broken something, hurt myself doing some stupid play -  my mother main issue was that my father would have gotten angry at her lack of supervision. Me being hurt? Does it matter? I was clearly full of myself, back then.

She was also always saying me that no girl would ever love me, because I was not as beautiful as my brother (whom, however, was despised by both parents as they were a 2nd and a 3rd children with enormous chip on their shoulders against their older brothers).

My father thought that I was not good enough to do any job but to keep going on with the small contractor business that he had, and he tried his level best to force me into doing it, although he loved the idea that I would somehow, someday expanded it "on a bigger scale".

The fact that I could not care less for masonry never managed to enter his skull before it was too late.

I went to a vocational high school with a somewhat narrow technical curriculum that, after the second year, branched in four directions: Electrics, Mechanics, Information Technology and Building.

I had no idea what "IT" was (it was 1987, in Italy), so I was undecided between Electrics and Mechanics - and went with E. simply because a couple of friends were doing it.

When my family discovered it, it looked as if I had killed somebody, with dishes thrown at my face and an atmosphere of betrayal.

They forced me - it was that, or to start working full time with my father as a labourer with no pay or insurance, and I wasn't keen on that either - to pick the stupid "building" course(s).

They thought that I tried to betray them but - really - they were betraying me  -
(as they did with my brother, before me, forced to follow the same idiotic path).

If I will ever amount to anything, I will use some suitable pseudonym that will guarantee that no light will ever shine upon their pathetic names.


_DB

Cynicism of the day

"No man can win an argument.
 Don't criticize, condemn, or complain."
 
    - Dale Carnegie

"It's just, all, completely useless."

    - Dabotz

A Bad Day

Some days, and this is one of them, I feel like nobody cares for the stuff that I draw - and ideas of converting GPL eighteen-wheelers in thermobaric bombs siege my poor brain.


My fault, as I do stuff that caters to a most reductive portion of the viewers - but, drawing fan-art of famous characters? or Yaoi? That's even worse than crap.

Maybe, it is just that I am not that good.

Who cares? Not even me - I'll draw my crap nonetheless.

And if watching my stuff damages you, if it makes even less likely that you go out and find a woman, if helps you confining yourself in your home, if it fosters that rage in your chest against this shitty system you have no choice but to live in,

       good.

I really, really, really hate your guts, pal.

Breakdown

 This is a rant and I do not make a good impression in it. It could be worse.

I was 33 years old. My job, with transfer time, ate 12 hours of my day, and gave me nothing back, really.

Little pay, no career opportunities, no perks like moving around either.
I was on a desk, programming, from 8:30 to 17:30, plus travel time.

Now, get this straight - that job was the BRIGHT spot of my life.

When I was back at home, I was living with my mother (yeah, go living alone earning 18k a year... oh, you can't? what a surprise... by the way, it's not like I got back on my  feet, since then) and she was scared to death by, literally, anything.

Or, rather, she played every scare that passed through the media as terrorism tactics - more or less, it was like living with my own personal Bin laden.

The fucking SARS made two dead in Hong Kong? Hong Kong - what the fuck, 30 years ago HK didn't even exist, for people living in Italy, beyond being the place from where came the cheap calculators.

My mother was so scared of me catching it, in Milan, that I camped in the office for two weeks, trying to avoid to go back home. Until I was more or less booted from the place, having burnt all my allowable overtime for the year, in April.

After each scare, there was always another, so I couldn't even count on the Freudian relieve after the stress.

This, no matter how many time I said her that it was crap.

Because it was and still is CRAP:

I will be dead long before the fucking Antarctica melds, or the tuna will go extinct (OK, the tuna will disappear before me, maybe).

If a deadly pandemics spreads around the world, worrying about it the year before it appear will NOT FUCKING SAVE ME or anybody else, because I am not a health worker.

The only thing that made sense is that she was, really, scared of me going around and finally meeting a woman. So she spent her time belittling me and reminding me of how hopeless I was. I am not kidding.

Now, a sad truth is that I will never be much satisfied, in life, because...You likely know the stuff that I draw. Yes, that's kind of what I would like to do.

Which means that it goes years for me, between leaving a potential partner and meeting the next one.
And this is now, after 50 shades and the new DSM has taken down S&M from the "automatic philias" section.

Back in 2004, I felt that I had far less hopes, from that side. No hopes at all, really.
I had more or less accepted my lot in life, the only thing that I wanted was as little stress as possible.

Because I do not handle it well, and I had not much "ups" in my life to compensate for it.

The best I had in life back then was reading comics. Yeah, that's so exciting.

I had also stopped drawing, mostly because I didn't hope of ever getting any good with it.

Of course, she argued that I should give up buying comics, to spare one hundred bucks a month or so, to be ready to go alone when she died.

Could I say to her that, the moment she died I would look for female tenants, to share the house expenses, and sold the fucking Mercedes to buy a Punto?

Sold the fucking holiday flat?

Wait, I did.

It didn't matter, because it did not work with her narrative.

What mattered to her, was reminding me that I could not go alone (like not so few Italians of my generation).

If I had a passion, or need, in life that she did not recognize, she wanted me to cut it.

Because I may be the one drawing tiny girls with rotating, spiky dildos up their arses, but the member of my family that is a scary, dominating freak control is her.And her solution to every problem, ever since I exist, has always been cutting out something of my space, castrating me some fucking more.

Anyway, at that time I felt I was reaching the end of my ropes... and I told her so.

I asked her to keep her paranoid thoughts to herself, because my life was hard enough as it was.

(a thankless job was my BRIGHT spot, then I had an absolute null social life and a whore a month as sex life, no feel of hope whatsoever... brcause I had a null social life growing up and no idea of how one manages it and, also, because doing anything more meant moving more and sending her in a frenzied defence mode    ).

And her answer was

"I can't, It's my nature."


Now, I know that it is.

And I  would have accepted an "I'll try", if not an "I will".

Eve the stupid scorpion from the tale, answers "I will not sting you mid-water, I would drown myself"  to the frog. Then he stings the frog all the same, but at least it made a try.

It was asking too much from my mother, evidently.

"It is my nature".

Well, if we must follow our natures...

It is not in my nature to work 8 hours a day, losing some three more in transit, only to feel hopelessly imprisoned when I come back home - because I live with a control maniac - that I can't reasonably rid myself of anytime soon- that doesn't even want to try to keep herself in check.

If I feel a prisoner, if I am a prisoner inside my life... I will at least not contribute to the running expenses of the prison.  For me it was a bad moment... I could have recuperated from it, maybe, over time - or I may have killed myself, how my sister-in-law feared.

That year, though, things got together.

My brother decided to move away, to another country, and invited me to join the adventure.
My first impulse was saying no, though he showed me the place - where I live now - and it is gorgeous.

No way to earn a dime (most youngsters go away), but it is gorgeous.

Unfortunately, that year the university office where I worked had the first opening for a full time, permanent contract in half a decade. Of course, governmental stuff it was, so the selection of personnel was through public competition (more or less trimmed on what we temps already did - the Boss didn't really want to find himself with a bunch of unknown people to train).

I got third of the fifteen or so to be placed under contract, and all went well till the interview with the university's psychologist, a young woman with an incredibly nice ass but not the sharper tool in the box, who made me  the most dumb question you can make to someone paid 40% less of what he would earn in the private sector:

"What is your take on enterprise loyalty?"

In 2004? not even the Japanese believed any more in that crap, at least those of my generation.

I liked my colleagues, and the office, but as far as whole enterprises go, it is too abstract and uncaring an entity for ME to care about it. The enterprise is lucky that I work for it, instead of conspiring to destroy it as it should be. Over.

Of course, the shrink gave a negative opinion to me becoming an "eternal" employee (Italian government employees aren't ever canned, unless they kill somebody on the job, and even then, only "maybe") there and I mistook that as an effective block of the indefinite duration assumption, so instead of stay put I took the invitation from my brother and moved away.

I shouldn't have done so, because I lost those four (literally 4) friends that I had back in Italy, and I completely lose my marbles for quite some years (I didn't get them back, really).

I felt even more of a prisoner, and I really stopped contributing to the prison.


I am getting back in shape, little by little. Not enough, and not fast enough, probably.

I suspect that much of the reason why I feel better, this last year,  is really that my mother has become senile.She doesn't feel that she has the power in hand as she used to, and has become more  reasonable.

Almost human.

Maybe she will even die before I am old beyond any hope.
Maybe, I can still take out some happiness from this shit called life.

That said, if I could destroy the world tomorrow, I probably would.

Which makes a good thing that I was not born in the USA.

Or I would try to become Prez, and then, once the briefcase with the fucking codes was in my hands...

Weapons are made to be used.

First and foremost, nuclear weapons.

MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA



<< 

S'i fosse fuoco, arderei 'l mondo;
s'i fosse vento, lo tempestarei;
s'i fosse acqua, i' l'annegherei;
s'i fosse Dio, mandereil' en profondo;
s'i fosse papa, allor serei giocondo,
ché tutti cristiani imbrigarei;
s'i fosse 'mperator, ben lo farei;
a tutti tagliarei lo capo a tondo.
S'i fosse morte, andarei a mi' padre;
s'i fosse vita, non starei con lui;
similemente faria da mi' madre.
Si fosse Cecco com'i' sono e fui,
torrei le donne giovani e leggiadre:
le zoppe e vecchie lasserei altrui.

                                                                     >>

Cecco Angiolieri

Robi de campana a martel

A  [fair] warning. 

This is an autobiographical piece, mostly about my parents; it has likely degenerated in yet another rant, and hopefully one that may not appeal to you at all.

Hopefully because, if it does, you are as hopelessly in-adapted to modern life as I feel that I am. 

In which case, my condolences and let's get drunk together, some day.

The title roughly translate to "Things [so preposterous that they are] worthy of being announced to the people, by tolling bells with hammers".

I  suppose that an actual Briton or American could write the same far more succinctly, in English, but for my purposes this translation is clear enough.

It was one of the preferred phrases of my parents.

It really translates to "Kid, this thing you want to do embarrasses me greatly" - only, put this way, it would mean to admit that the problem lies with the parent, more than with the kid, which would require an ability to put oneself under examination well beyond my parents fairly narrow limits.

And herein lies the problem:

What exactly embarrassed my parents? A kid wanting to go in vacation at Islas Baleares in 1983, for example - from Italy, not from the U.S.

Or another one that preferred computers and electronics to building structural engineering, in 1992.

You fail to see where were the problem was, in both cases?  The same did I.

In reality - it took years to me, to get his - that phrase was a knee-jerk response, one that they resorted to when confronted with any thing that went beyond their experience.

Instead of saying "I do not have any idea about this; let's take a step back, and try to see how things are, eventually asking around" they felt threatened, and did their best to dismiss any idea or concept that stayed out of their very tight boxes.

They felt diminished, and answered with anger and derision.   

All along my childhood, I saw my brother (some years older) fight for this or that, with them, and never, ever, ever win.

Worse, every now and then he inadvertently stepped inside "Robi'" territory and, afterwards, he was accused, for a couple of years or so (!), of having "embarrassed them" with a "crazy request".

Now, I have been accused of many things (being a huge pervert that really hates women and a very gentle asshole chiefs among them - both, not without a certain degree of truth) but being unable to extrapolate a trend, from a very repetitive pattern, is not among them.

It was not before long that I learned that they couldn't be trusted for anything that had even a passing importance for me, and that they were the last persons to involve in - uh - anything.

My parents were the last persons on Earth whom I trusted.

As a consequence  of this, when I was - about -  twelve, they started calling me the "Calabro-Siculo-Sardo" ("Sicilian-Calabrian-Sardinian") because I respected omertà even more religiously than a stereotypical inhabitant of one of those Italians regions.

At every question, I always answered "I do not know".

Because, sometimes, I really did not know.

Sometimes, I just did not know which answer would not make them mad.

And, always, I knew that they didn't really want to know any inconvenient truth... they just wanted to be reassured that they were still in control.

Answer to any question, or say something actually personal, was pointless and or dangerous - so I simply stopped.

And, because assertive refusal of doing anything was also NOT an option, I ended up becoming a MOUNTAIN of passive aggression, too.

I won't say no to you, but you will die before I do anything that I do not really want to do

Literally.

It is bad? yes it is.

Yet, my chief at work was bright enough to understand what my parents never could.

To get me doing something, it is enough to tell me "There is something to do; it's kind of hard but interesting, would you mind do it?" - he asked, so I pulled it off, time and again, because someone had to do it and I could, and it was kind of fun.

But if you give me an actual order, I rather die before caving in - I won't explicitly refuse, but I'll fuck things up with a silent yet unyielding sabotage.

My parents never got this (even though every professor since primary school spelled it to them "He can do everything he wants, but HE must want to do it. If you give him orders, it is the end" - my parents refused to take note, of course, of anything after "he can do everything").

They were always giving orders, and framing things in terms of ultimatums, or duties out of some god-like authority.

Or things that were "necessary for the family", like some pathetic "Tywin Lannister" of the North-Italian low-middle class.

But, as Tirion could tell you, were he around, if they keep telling you that you are but a mail in a [pretty pathetic, small town] family chain, you start thinking...

"Fuck Off The Family."

Which, in turn, translates to "I will never, ever reproduce".

Now, it would be perfect if my brother hadn't had two kids, or if they were not kind of sweet.

Hopefully, life is long and they may still earn a Darwin award by themselves.

Let's hope.

Acritical Rant

This is a rant. 

As such it is not coherent at all (it started as something completely different, too, and then derailed completely off tracks) and - possibly - quite uninteresting for anybody else.


"I go through moments of so wanting to draw, wonder if you have ever been like that?"
                                                                                   - A friend of mines, that I hope will be back at drawing soon.


Yes, most of the time

And a long time ago, I did stop drawing for good.

At the time I had a job, that ate a lot of my time, and a family that, depending on the member of it, was either disparaging me because I didn't earn that much (for all my perceived intelligence), or was trying to castrate me, and terrorize me - it was as living with my very own, very personal Osama Bin Laden -, so that I didn't go beyond control, and didn't bring the dogs of thought police upon me, shaming everybody.

It all come to a boiling point in 2006, when I blew up a gasket or two (or seven [chakras]), and I have been through a long period of crisis ever since... ten years long, and no signs of getting better in sight.

I do not have a job any more and I am not even sure that I could manage to keep it, if I landed one:

I have attacks of panic at the mere thought of going back to that situation.

Working 9 hours a day plus 4 of travel for literally NOTHING that I cared for.

I couldn't even keep the car that I  liked because it was too "Crappy", run-down and a hard ride, so I had to switch to my late father's Mercedes.

Mercedeses are comfortable, but are one Bloody Hell Boring  piece of junk.

The only manly drive is Alfa Romeo RWD Saloons (or the GTV6).

Losing 13 hours a day to a dead end job, just to come back home and being harassed because some idiot fell ill with SARS in Taiwan, to have the privilege of paying the wages of any damned bastard in an uniform that may cross my path and make me feel in danger (because a lot hat I draw does put me in danger).

Fuck Off!

Fuck Off!

Fuck Off!

Fuck Off!

Fuck Off!

Fuck Off!

Fuck Off!

Fuck Off!

Fuck Off!

If this is all that life is,Fuck Goddamn Off! I am not going to lay a finger, to keep the wheels turning in this shit way -  and I mean it.

I burnt out all my savings and some, but I can't manage to step out of the hole I dug for myself - when you reach bottom is time to start digging - not even sure there is anything for me out there, really.

Even if I managed to get back at being a functioning human being.

Hell, even receiving a commission for a drawing spirals me into depression, because it means taking some sort of orders...  and hate is a word too mild to describe how I feel about it.

I am in therapy, and it has helped a lot, but I still sometime despair to ever get back on my feet.

Drawing has been one of the few things that have kept me from the brink, when I routinely thought that I would have been better off by killing myself. Or by killing a lot of somebody else and then, only then, kill myself.

It has kept me going and, bit by little bit, it has given me some new sources of hope, since I started using the DaBotz moniker and be more persistent in my efforts.

In the long term, I know that I'll have either to turn more mainstream, or getting a day job again.

Perhaps by that time I will feel better, less trapped in a world that I do not want to contribute to at all (because a lot of asses  in it would like to see me dead, for not singing to their tunes and not respecting their 'God'-laden authority).

Perhaps not... in which case, it is good that I live in a country where assault weapons are really hard to come by.

Because, some of these days I really like the idea of killing some ass-holes, before fading away.

When I get a bit better, I realize it wouldn't change jack... it would only achieve sending me away with a million tons of guilt in my heart, for having failed to what I consider the only true duty of any living human: bring to the world more joy than the pain that we cause by living.

OK, I'll got drunk, now. 

My Squad

My Squad

OK, this is my squad... or, to be more precise, the kind of squad that I'd like to have at my command.

I know, I know, it is not going to happen, ever.

And it is demeaning for women (why? no, really, why??? And I mean, exactly, WHY?) that I even go around pushing this kind of drawing.

OK; now, let's see... how many of you guys, would say no t having this kind of squad in you service?

Come one... your lady is not really looking, and there are plenty of other reasons you'd be worried, if she find this site in your browser history, like... you didn't tell her that you liked my kind of stuff, did you?

No, eh? She'd cut your balls off, on the durface value of the site itself, just because.

Just because you consigned her your balls to chop every fucking time she is displeased, you FUCKING DAMN MORON!

Nobody really forced you to do so - nobody forced you to marry/get engaged/room-sharing-with-benefits with a woman like that.

You did it... you were scared of being alone, scared of growing old and miserable, or you were really in love with her.

This doesn't change the fact that you have handed down your balls to her, and now you can't even admit that you'd like to have some four barely legal girls catering to your whims, even if every scientific plausible fact available points in the direction that your brain was built only to enjoy crave that.

All the rest, monogamy and the whole enormous shitload of CRAP that we call society, is there to keep you in line, so you can PAY THE BILLS OF YOUR MASTERS while they use YOUR MONEY to  FUCK THE GIRLS THAT YOU CANNOT EVEN TOUCH.

Oh, of course, not all your money, it's true... most of it goes to PAY THE BILLS of the WARDENS that keep you IMPRISONED IN YOUR SHITTY PLACE.

Yeah, tell me that I am wrong, that I oversimplify things and that the world does not really work like that.

You know, it would be more believable, if you could say it without crying..