Yeah, I’ve been neglecting things a bit. I suggest using the RSS feed for easy notices on updates, because I really don’t know what my pacing is going to be like.

Anyway, I’d like to re-design the site a bit when I have some time, but for now you’ll just have to deal with this clashed look against the new strips.

You’ve probably already guessed it (especially if you are an electric guessist), but for the time being, Inkblort won’t have a regular update schedule. Strips will be plastered on this homey funkblog they’re finished. Sorry if you came to enjoy the regularity, but so goes the erratic pulse of ink D:

My scanner, my dear friend, did not wake up this morning.

This has happened before, and he (she?) was revived on its own (or by God?) so I don’t want to rush out and buy a new one, because I’m cheap, and would rather wait a bit to see if my scanner pulls a Jesus again.

This is actually somewhat good timing for me. GTA 4… Okami… Mario Kart… all are poised to consume my itty bitty life… mmmmmmm….

Anyway, sorry about that, I know there’s already been a lot of nothing recently.

Apologies all around!

Sorry for not being a dutiful “every-other-day” webcomicmonger these days. I’ve got an exam coming up, so that’s why. Partially. I’m also lazy. But anyway, it’ll be a few days before the next strip.

I’m off to repel a small ant invasion, and then finally to bed.

G’night.

Today my pop tasked me to chopping up a whole chicken (erm, already dead, clean, etc.) It wasn’t particularly exciting, but perhaps sadly, was the most interesting experience I’ve had this week (I generally spend my time enjoying boring, monotonous activities). It’s weird when the meat actually sort of resembles what it was. I think you get so used to thinking of meat as neatly packed slabs, that you sort of forget they weren’t just walking chicken breasts or whatever. It was a living, breathing beast or bird that was born for you.

I’m not about to go veggie, but I couldn’t help but feel a little more unsettled than usual as I stabbed into the chicken’s chest, making a chalky, cracking sound, with my dad in the background saying “Good! You broke through the ribcage!”

Poor chicken.

At least his last act was to taste great.