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Close To Monsters #76

CTM76

This weeks comic is brought to you by your parents ability to make your future failures seem like todays.

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I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done, like my 2015 novel “You Ruined Everything”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my feed over at Ello. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip , buy prints/stickers and more at my online store on Big Cartel, or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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Birds My Father Hated: Season 2 Episode 13 “Doves”

In this episode, Mavis discusses a pair of doves that have moved in over her front door, and talks about her own ideas regarding sex and love.

If you like this show and wanna help fund further episodes of it, or other programs like it, please consider subscribing to my Patreon, where, for as low as a dollar a month, you not only get access to literally everything I do early and Patreon only content, but you also get each episode a whole week early!

Buy My Book!  Support Me Via Patreon!  Visit My Online Store!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done, like my 2015 novel “You Ruined Everything”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my feed over at Ello. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip , buy prints/stickers and more at my online store on Big Cartel, or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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Close To Monsters #56

CTM29

This weeks comic is brought to you by irony.

Buy My Book!  Support Me Via Patreon!  Visit My Online Store!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done, like my 2015 novel “You Ruined Everything”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my feed over at Ello. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip , buy prints/stickers and more at my online store on Big Cartel, or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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Close To Monsters #54

ctm27

This weeks comic is brought to you by parental hypocrisy.

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I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done, like my 2015 novel “You Ruined Everything”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my feed over at Ello. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip , buy prints/stickers and more at my online store on Big Cartel, or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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Close To Monsters #52

ctm05

This comic is brought to you by the fact that sometimes, you’d like to return the gift of life.

Buy My Book!  Support Me Via Patreon!  Visit My Online Store!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done, like my 2015 novel “You Ruined Everything”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my feed over at Ello. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip , buy prints/stickers and more at my online store on Big Cartel, or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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What To Do When You Weren’t Supposed To Exist

I am not a religious person.

At one point, I considered myself an atheist, but I’ve long since outgrown that edgy teenager position and now consider myself just “spiritual”, and if we’re being honest, “spiritual lite”. I mostly believe in Wiccan ideals, believe in the earth and energy. All that beautiful crap. But sometimes I think about there possibly being a heaven, and I think that if there was, and by some chance I wound up there, I hope my grandfather is there, because if he is, there’s one thing in particular I’d love to ask him:

“Why didn’t you try harder to keep my parents apart?”

But let’s go back a bit. I am, in total honesty, an enigma. The circumstances surrounding my conception are equal to that of “hey, you want some dip with these chips?” and someone else replying “yeah, that sounds good”, so you get the dip but then after you’ve had the dip a while you realize you weren’t cut out to eat said dip, oh and also the person who got said dip you want to punch in the fucking face repeatedly, which is, to be blunt, exactly what my father did to my mother. That’s partially what makes my youth so confusing; you’d think someone who experience first hand abuse wouldn’t turn around and then redistribute it to their child, but hey, I guess trauma works in mysterious ways. My grandfather once told me a story about how much he hated my father, and how my father once took a chainsaw to their house late one night, while drunk, and started trying to cut down their cherry tree in the front yard.

 

Aside from the tree, the one I feel the worst for is my grandfather. Not only did he fail to keep these two people apart, people who clearly shouldn’t have been together, but then he had to watch my father abuse my mother, knowing he tried to protect her from this. So, I am the human equivalent of a leftover Mexican dinner. Something someone thought they wanted, then when they got it home realized it wasn’t what they wanted at all, and then started to blame the other person who making them order it. My father beat my mother. I am not going to be quiet about it. He did that. That’s a thing that happened. He did this mostly while he was on copious amounts of drugs, and also wildly blackout drunk, not that that excuses it, but I want the context to be there. He was in and out of prison most of my life, and only after my mother had taken me back to California to live with her parents, did he track us down and try to make amends.

One of the biggest problems with me is that I have no home. The closest thing I had was my grandparents, and now that they’re dead, it’s been sold, and I have nothing. My mother remarried to a man who wound up being incredibly emotionally abusive, which in turn made her incredibly emotionally abusive; meanwhile my father was dating girl after girl who could supply him with whatever drug he wanted at that moment in time, and the weekends I spent with him were often spent alone, on the torn up couch of his run down rental house while he either slept or fucked his girlfriend in the other room. I think this is why nowhere feels like home, because growing up, I never had a single house that I felt safe in, and the only one that came relatively close no longer belongs to my family.

In essence, I do not belong anywhere, in any way, and let me tell you, that really wraps a persons perception of reality and the “meaning” of life.

So I’m not saying my parents didn’t want me. I’m saying that they were, like many other people of their generation, people who were incredibly damaged and decided to start a family because it was what was expected of them. So while I wasn’t “unwanted”, I was certainly nothing more than a merger to save two failing companies. But what happens when this newly merged company then flounders in sales and goes out of business? What happens to its assets? IE; me? Therein lies the problem. Where I once was a commodity, now I was leftover stock. Something that somebody had once wanted and was now just forgotten, sitting in the back shelf of the warehouse with a 90% off sticker on the box. So my mother and I moved in with her parents when I was very young. I spent a good portion of my childhood with my grandparents, with my grandfather walking me to school and watching soap operas with my grandmother while we sat at her kitchen table and cracked walnuts together from their backyard walnut tree. My mother was working all the time, and when she remarried, we moved to a city over an hour away and I didn’t see my grandparents nearly as much. Aside from my grandparents, I have never really felt like a part of my family, I always felt like a tumor attached to this living creature. Something everyone acknowledge, put up with but never got close to or really accepted. I should not have existed. My parents should not have had me. But they did.

 

And now I have to find ways to fill my time until I die.

I think this is partly why I create. Why I make art and write books, because it gives me some sort of control over something, unlike in my actual life, where nothing is ever in control, much less my control. I have to do something with the time I’ve been given, and the only way I can make sense of the world aground me, the world I was thrust into without any reason and against my own will, is to analyze it through the eyes of other characters. I never fit in at school, everyone always made fun of me and growing up I was really lonely. To be fair, I was a pretty weird girl. I collected dead animals and liked ghosts and wore flannel in elementary school. Not that who I am warrants bullying, that’s never an excuse, but on some warped level, I kind of understand, because god knows I hate myself more than the other kids hated me.

I tried so many things, trying to find where I belonged, as every kid does growing up, but in such a different way, I wasn’t doing this to discover what “clique” or whatever I felt most comfortable with, because I was super antisocial. I was doing this to literally find a purpose to a life I didn’t feel deserved a purpose. Was I a band geek? I joined band in 7th grade because a friend of mine did, and I thought that’s what you did. You did whatever those around you did. But I didn’t enjoy it, nor was I any good at it, but I still suffered through an entire year of it, because guess what…it could be who I was and what I was destined to do! Maybe this was why I was given this existence! Of course not. That’s fucking stupid.

I don’t really remember how I fell into writing. I remember I used to come home from school and wanted to retreat to a world I was in control of, and so I started writing and making up worlds and people, but I know that wasn’t when I settled on it, because at some point I started drawing and thinking I could have a future making comics or something. Then I went into film making and did that for a long time, before settling onto the term “artist” because it encompassed everything without pigeonholing me into one medium, and I think that’s honestly the best description of my comfort level with my unwanted, unexpected existence. I have to do a little bit of everything, because one thing simply isn’t enough. I need more than one reason to be here, because I don’t have one reason to begin with. So how do you cope with being alive when you weren’t supposed to be? For me, it became creating other things that had no right to be here.

Now…I nearly died when I was a little girl.

I got very sick and dehydrated, and wound up in the hospital for months. I don’t remember much, but I do remember having to almost relearn how to walk. I also nearly died when I was born, because my umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck when I came out, and nearly strangled me to death. That’s twice before the age of 5. Something was clearly out to get me. This is a belief that I have struggled with ever since then, call me batty or not, I don’t care. I struggle with the idea that I should have died, that I wasn’t supposed to be born, and thus I was supposed to die, and I cheated death and won and since then everything for me has been absolute shit.

I know. Believe me, I recognize it’s an absolutely ludicrous thing to believe. But, I do believe it, and somehow, continuing to live, even when I want to die, is the most rebellious thing I can do. So how do I cope with existing when I shouldn’t? I exist. I continue living and tell life, “Guess what, fuck you, I’m here, and nothing you can do can change that. Only I can change that, and only when I decide to.” I drew the most strength from not dying, and not giving into the urge to kill myself, and creating things that wouldn’t be here without me, whether people see them or not. I am an enigma. Everything from the get go, from my parents courtship, has been set against me even being here, and yet somehow, against all odds, against any attempt by life or my own hand, I remain here.

I think that’s how you cope with existing. You exist.

I am not a religious person. But sometimes I think about there possibly being a heaven, and I think that if there was, and by some chance I wound up there, I hope my grandfather is there, because if he is, there’s one thing in particular I’d love to ask him, and that would be “Why didn’t you try harder to keep my parents apart?” but instead, I wouldn’t, and I would realize that by allowing all of this to happen, my grandfather gave me the one thing I’ve always searched for. A meaning. I am here because he failed, I am unintentionally his greatest achievement, and my parents greatest mistake. I am the culmination of bad choices and shortcomings, but I exist because my grandfather failed to keep my parents apart. So I will live with that in my heart, knowing that I am here to keep his spirit alive, his drive and ambitions, and be the good person he and my grandmother brought me up to be. I exist because he couldn’t forever. Yeah, I wouldn’t ask him that question.

Instead I’d stand with him and enjoy the sunset.

[This is a repost of a Medium article]

Buy My Book!  Support Me Via Patreon! Visit My Online Store!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done, like my 2015 novel “You Ruined Everything”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip , buy prints/stickers and more at my online store on Big Cartel, or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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That Pig Ornament On Our Mantel

Growing up, my mother was obsessed with christmas, or, more accurately, she was obsessed with attempting to recapture the feeling that christmas used to give her when she was a child and her life hadn’t descended into the all encompassing masking of her depression and unhappiness being forced into a marriage that was nothing more than a mere state recognized version of “babysitter” for my stepdads kids and ended up becoming addicted to pain medication. But ya know, yay christmas.

Anyway, every single December, she’d bring out box after box of christmas decorations, up to and including things like a small reindeer that pooped brown M&Ms by pushing on it, a Beatles Yellow Submarine tree ornament and a Santa holding a chalkboard where you can write how many days left until the magical morning. The most memorable one to me, however, was one we got before she even married me stepfather. It was (I’m assuming ceramic, I am sorry I am not more informed) a pig laying on its side, with a wreath around its neck, and it had a big grin on its face. It wasn’t cartoonish in the least, it was very realistic, and it sat on our mantel place every single christmas.

I’m not entirely sure why this one is so ingrained in my mind, as if it’s been branded on my brain like a mark onto a cow hide, but it is nonetheless. My stepfather dumped my mother on christmas eve after 12 years of marriage, the same christmas that was the first without my grandmother, who’d died soon before. My mother stopped putting ornaments out after the divorce for the most part, but the pig always made an appearance, and while I probably haven’t seen this ornament in over a decade now at the least, I can still recall it perfectly.

I think the reason I remember it is because to me it, it is the physical manifestation of how I think my mother felt about the holiday in the end, even after the good times associated with it were over. Much like a pig is happy slopping around in its own shit, she was happy being in a holiday that had turned to such shit because of the good memories it brought to her. I think there’s some clarity in that, which says a lot considering how much clarity she lacked when it came to damn near everything else.

When I was a little girl, my grandma used to give me advent calendars during December. I haven’t had an advent calendar in a long, long time (likely even a while before she died), just as I hadn’t really celebrated christmas much until I spent it with my girlfriend at her parents place the last few years. We decorated a tree and everything, and we had an actual christmas with her family there. While I still don’t like the holiday the way I did as a kid, I still can’t forget that goddamned pig. Sometimes I wonder where that pig is, if my mother even still has it or it broke or she threw it out. In the last few years especially, pigs have become some of my favorite animals, so it only makes it harder not to think about it.

Wherever you are, christmas pig, I hope you’re okay. At least one of us can still enjoy this holiday, and thanks for teaching me to try and enjoy what’s happening to me, even if it is utter shit.

[This is a repost of a Medium article.]

Buy My Book!  Support Me Via Patreon! Donate To Our GoFundMe!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I’ve done, like my 2015 novel “You Ruined Everything”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!