A Very Special Happy Comic

Our family is growing.

Haven’t been drawing as much lately, so I figured I’d whip up something quick with some new overlay skills I learned in paint because I’m still in 1997. Enjoy the soul crushing happiness everyone!

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, 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.

Wanna donate to me directly? You can do that via PayPal! Wanna support me ongoing month to month and get content early? You can do that via Patreon! Thanks for whatever you can spare, I really appreciate it!


Bereavement BBQ

The other night, my girlfriend and I went to dinner at a burger restaurant in the mall near our house. With my fries, they gave me some BBQ sauce that was fantastic and delicious, so my girlfriend asked what brand it was, and our server told us. When we got home, my girlfriend looked up the brand and found their website, and on their website discovered “bereavement platters”, which was just an absolutely hilarious combination of words, to be honest. But, it made me think that there’s a part of funeral services nobody ever really talks about; catering.

I’ve been to a few funerals in my time, and I can’t remember a single time they were catered. I remember after my grandfathers funeral, we all went out to dinner at his favorite restaurant, but nothing was catered. Then again, I suppose you might need to have an actual wake in order to have funeral catering. Either way, it made me think about how, even before you’re in the ground, they’re making plans to eat at your funeral. Life goes on, even hours or a day after you’re gone. It makes me feel so insignificant, but not in a bad way for once. It makes me feel like, listen, you’re here while you’re here, experiencing what you experience, and once that’s over, it’s over, and life just keeps going. Everything we think is so important, so crucial, it really doesn’t mean anything in the end, at least not in the long term.

Yes we impact people, yes we change lives, yes we leave a legacy of some kind. But you know what’s more important than any of that?

Tiny 4 cheese quiches on doilies. That’s what.

But in all seriousness, funeral catering really hammered home to me just how fucking fleeting and unimportant all of this really is. All the things I worry about, all the things I hope to achieve, all the things I’ve failed at. It all fails to match up to the fact that my hopes, my dreams, my goals will one day be secondary to my future wife spending the day on the phone, making sure there’s enough cocktail weenies to go around at my wake. It puts everything into perspective, but in a really good way. It makes me not feel so bad about not accomplishing things, about failing at things, because you know what? Somebody’s most important decision one day will be what sort of drinks to serve when I kick it, and that’s pretty hilarious.

I may create a menu, in fact, so that my future wife knows exactly what to serve. My funeral may be the only thing in my life that I have total and complete say over how it goes, so why not plan it down to its every last detail before I die? I want lots of desserts, I want napkins folded like swans, I want peoples meals to be served on trashcan lids, because everything we eat is garbage, so why not be upfront about it?

So, via the odd realization of funeral catering, I feel like I’ve finally had a breakthrough of some kind, in which I don’t worry as much now about failing, or succeeding, and am just happy being, right here, right now.

Because one day I won’t be.

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, the satirical online newspaper of “Nowhere, US”, 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.

Wanna donate to me directly? You can do that via PayPal! Wanna support me ongoing month to month and get content early? You can do that via Patreon! Thanks for whatever you can spare, I really appreciate it!


I Am So Sick Of Being Told I’m Sick

I spent years telling people I wasn’t depressed. Even after I was finally diagnosed with severe clinical depression (among other things), I still claimed denial to everyone who asked. I thought it was dirty. I thought being sick was a bad thing. I thought this mostly because it’s exactly how society frames it, so of course that’s how I’d read into it. So, I denied being depressed for years, ultimately eventually even tricking myself into believing it, which is really dangerous because then when I did suffer from symptoms of said depression, I’d just think to myself, “Why do I feel this bad? What’s going on here?” when there was a clearly labeled answer staring me right back in the face.

Once you get past the initial feelings regarding your sickness, and accept that you’re sick and that it’s totally okay to be sick and not something to be ashamed of, that’s when you’re really moving onto better things. Staying stagnant in my denial just made me even worse than if I’d just faced my depression head on. It really did way more damage than the depression itself did. Once I acknowledged my sickness, it opened doors for me, like how to discover what coping mechanisms worked best for me.

But this isn’t just a personal problem. I felt bad because society told me I should feel bad. We even call depression an “illness”, for god sakes. I think what we need to start with first is literally stopping society from condemning the ill simply for being seemingly different from everyone else. That’s the first step in treating these illnesses. This isn’t something I brought onto myself or chose to have. This is just something that happened to me, against my will. I shouldn’t be made to feel bad for something I literally couldn’t stop from happening, and that’s, not gonna sugarcoat it, heavily damaged my life.

It’s affected the way “friends” have seen me, the way my family has treated me and the way I view myself by comparison because of those said reactions. I want to get better, but much like AA, I have to first admit I have a problem. That’s been the hardest step for me, honestly, but the most crucial. I wanted to deny it for so long, and I did, and I only did more damage to myself. Now I’m ready to grow. I’m ready to fight back.

I’m ready to be okay with being sick.

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, the satirical online newspaper of “Nowhere, US”, my podcast “Coping With Tonal Shifts In Reality” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip.

Wanna donate to me directly? You can do that via PayPal! Wanna support me ongoing month to month and get content early? You can do that via Patreon! Wanna support me but can’t do it continuously? You can do that via Buy Me A Coffee! Thanks for whatever you can spare, I really appreciate it!


Alpha & Omega

I can remember the first time I swam on my own. It was summer, during an afternoon swim camp at the YMCA that my mother had signed me up for to learn how to swim, and it was with this very nice young, blonde woman who really liked me and was very patient with me. I had a lot of trouble grasping things when I was a child, much more than other children, and swimming was a tough one especially because of the coordination involved, which I was and still am very poor with. I still cannot even tie my shoes, so that gives you some idea how bad I am at coordination. I remember feeling so good that I finally got it, that I finally figured out how to swim. I don’t swim anymore. I haven’t swam in years, actually. But I learned how, and that was great.

I can remember the first time I had sex. It was with a friend, and suddenly after one brief period of time spent together, we were closer than ever. We started chatting all the time, hanging out on video chat or texting, and watching movies online together. It was a very hard time for me, as my grandmother was getting exceptionally ill, and I didn’t really know who else to turn to. Then, one night I stayed at her place, and after watching a movie, we decided to go ahead and sleep together. It made me feel safe, and it made me feel loved. It was the first time I’d ever felt like that, and it was something I’d wanted for a long time. I can remember waking up the next morning and feeling like a different person. I know they say that it’s all in the mind, that virginity is a ‘social construct’ and all that, and that’s well and good, but for someone like me, who’s spent her life being shunned and rejected, it meant the world for someone to want me like that.

I can remember the first time I finished a really long book. It was 7th grade, and it was Stephen King’s “IT” which I managed to read in a week and a half, which is impressive considering it’s a thousand pages long. But the real reason this meant a lot to me was because, as I’ve talked about on this blog before, I had so much trouble learning how to read when I was little. To go from needing a private tutor in 2nd grade to finishing a thousand page horror novel in 7th grade…it was a real triumph for me, and made me feel so good about myself. Sure, I’d read the first few Harry Potter books, and those were long, but those were for the most part kids books at the time. I’d even read some Redwall books, and those were novels too, even as much as four hundred pages sometimes, but this…this was a real novel. I’d finally read a really big book, and I never felt better about my skill.

Obviously there’s firsts I can’t remember. First christmas, first tooth lost, things like that. I sort of remember learning to ride a bike, but not clearly enough that it warrants a section in this post. The sad thing is, these made me feel so good at the time. These were things I’d never accomplished, that I wanted to accomplish, and I finally managed to and I felt fantastic about it. But then, the firsts stop coming. There stop being firsts. I’d like to get married, have some kids, buy a house. The first kid. The first house. New firsts. But who knows what my future holds, or if I even have one. Who knows if I’ll ever experience another first again. The reason I think we so strongly hold onto the past, to the concept of nostalgia is because of the firsts. These made life exciting. These made it feel like we’d progressed. But, when you run out of firsts, you stagnate.

But even worse than realizing that I’m out of firsts, or may never experience a first again, is the realization that one day there’ll be a last. That one day will be the last day I wake up. The last day I read. The last day I eat. I try not to let this ruin the whole idea, I try to instead focus on the idea of firsts, but it’s hard when your brain is so conditioned to only think of endings and not continuations. I wonder what the last thing I’ll ever say will be. I wonder who will be the last person I say it to. I know, too, that one day will be the last time I post here. I don’t know when that day will be, but it’ll happen eventually.

And whereas firsts and lasts give bookends, checkpoints to life, things to move beyond. It’s that section in the middle, all the nothingness, that I can’t stand. That’s the part that bothers me most. That’s the part I want to end.

I’m Maggie. I’m a writer/artist. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, the satirical online newspaper of “Nowhere, US”, or my podcast “Coping With Tonal Shifts In Reality” . You can also donate to my PayPal or support my work at Patreon, where you’ll get access to patron only content and new content early, all for as cheap as a buck a month! Thanks for reading!


A Traveling Mind

I fashioned a boat, and set sail to be free, left my pressures behind and became a new me. But it didn’t last long, sure the first week was fine, but soon I had found what had been plaguing my mind. They were things I can’t sail from, things I had scorned, things that I soon found that I’d mourn. Sure, sailing is fine, but you can’t run from your mind, no matter how far you go, it’s not far behind.

So I fixed a car, and drove off with no cares, left behind gossip and rumors and stares. At first it was nice, being alone on the street, forgetting your failures and denying defeat. But try as I might, I knew it can’t last, my tires were shot and running short on gas. You can put up a stop sign, you can drive through the night, but it won’t stop insecurities, it won’t stop your plights.

So I bought a plane, I flew into the skies, away from the pressures, away from the lies. I soared through the clouds, I flew with the birds, ignoring those taunts and all their cruel words. The engines were weak, the landing gear broke, this whole idea had turned into a joke. I was forced to land, my trip was a bust, my reasons were flawed and my feelings unjust.

I tried to sail, to drive and to fly, but it didn’t matter which one I’d try; you can’t run away from the problems you have, the things they have said, their opinions of you rattling ’round in your head. Try as you might, you can’t shake the pain, the thoughts that it brings will drive you insane. So if you can’t run, then what do you do? How do you run from your problem when the problem is you?

Hey. I’m Maggie. Like this thing I did? Then you might like other things I do! You can read my depressing webcomic, “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry” or check out my work at Medium. You can also donate to my girlfriend and mines PayPal if you so wish. Anything you give would be greatly appreciated and go towards helping us pay rent and get groceries. Thanks for reading!


The Unhappy Manifesto

Despite my best efforts to be a goody two shoes, perfectionist, law abiding young lady from the age of coherence to now, I’ve always apparently just been nothing more than inherently polarizing, without even realizing it was a bigger problem than I thought. I mean, I knew some people didn’t like me, hell I don’t even like me, so I get it, but I didn’t realize to that extent that they didn’t like me. However, after some very recent events this past summer, I know realize that to a lot of people, I’m just sorta not all that good I guess. The worst part is, I continue to be sorta not all that good to the people I most want to be hella all that good to, and it’s….it’s fucking heartbreaking.

I’m in no way ever trying to make myself sound like a perfect person, like someone who puts others before herself at all times or wants to gain the sympathy of complete and total strangers via a pity party blog she runs on the internet, but I do want it made clear that I at least try and do good by others. Because of how I’ve been treated by pretty much everyone throughout my life, I go really out of my way to be nice to those I let get even remotely close to me. I’m so closed up, that even the ones who think they know me rarely now me as well as they think they do. A few years ago, I told an ex girlfriend of mine something, and her response was “I never would’ve known that!”. Be aware, this is a girl I spent about 9 years being close friends with and then spent a year romantically involved with, and yet even she “never would’ve known that”, in regards to what I just told her. So, I try and be the best to the people I really care about, try to be genuinely nice to the people I don’t even know all that well and still try and retain an identity not at all known by anyone at all. It’s a tough life, y’all.

And yet, despite all of this, despite my best efforts, I am not a “liked” person, because even the people who I’ve known for years don’t know me that well and the others, the ones who have claimed to love me and want nothing more than my happiness (like the people I mentioned from this past summer earlier in the post), end up not really meaning that. I am not important. I am expendable. I am not good enough. I am polarizing. So, okay, I’m trying to work with that. For so long I wanted to please. I wanted to make my parents proud despite their obvious disinterest in my actual well being as a person, and I would try to reconnect with people I used to know who cut me off out of nowhere without saying a word, who I thought I mattered to. I wanted to make people love me. I wanted to create things people would be happy about. Now I’m trying desperately not to care as much. I’m trying to be ok with not being ok enough.

So I’m polarizing. Alright then. I’ll learn to work with that. The people who really do like me like me and that should be good enough. The problem is that you’re never sure who those people really are. You think you have a good idea, but…but people are so goddamned two faced. Now, with the advent of social media and online profiles, we as actual people, are nothing. Our profiles are everything. That’s the best of us distilled down to our successes, our triumphs, our goodness, and I don’t want to be one of those people who say “technology is bad!” because it isn’t. It’s helped created friendships I only could’ve once dreamed about, but to so many, I am just “that girl with the depressing blog” and not a real person, but I am real, and I do care. People may see me as polarizing, and, well, that’s on them. But I see me as I really am. I really do try and really do care. And even to the people who hurt me, to the people in my past, my parents, the people from this summer…I understand. We’re imperfect creatures. I don’t blame you anymore. We are who we are. If you find me polarizing, I might find you transparent and abusive, but I guess that’s just who we are, and only we alone can decide if we want to work on who we are. It has taken me two decades to get here, but, I know now that I am more than the sum of your opinions of me.

Reach out to me. Get to know me. I want to create a community out of sadness. I want to build a home from despair. Trying to be perfect got me nowhere, but accepting my imperfections have gotten me so far. Be polarizing. We can do it together.

I believe in us, flaws and all.

Hello. My name is Maggie. I make things, for you and for my own survival. If you like this stuff I made, you might like some of my other stuff, like my depressing space webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, and the site where I ask others to say how bad they feel to help others feel better, “Sad Party”. Check it out. Hit me up. Let’s be miserable together.

ADDENDUM: I am aware that a new “This Won’t Hurt A Bit: Memoirs From A Post Medical World” was supposed to come out Monday, October 23rd, but alas that could not happen. I apologize and it will return next Monday. Thank you for understanding.


Art Is Dead

When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with the concept of a “legacy”. Perhaps it came from the fact that my family didn’t pay me any attention or that I didn’t have any real friends, I realized that if I worked hard enough, was skilled enough, got lucky enough that I could make something that would stand the test of time, even to a small amount of people, and mean something to them after I was gone, thus making me remembered. I wanted to be here even after I wasn’t here. I was so terrified by the concept of nonexistence that I just had to find a way to exist, even after I didn’t physically exist anymore. I drew, I wrote, I made films, I did a million things to try and fix this problem, and ultimately after 15 years none of it has made a single lick of difference.

Now, on the cusp of my thirties, I find that instead, I’m wanting to leave as little a footprint on this planet as possible in terms of my existence. I want there to be no evidence whatsoever that I was ever here. How does one go from obsession with legacy to obsession with nothingness? I don’t want a paper trail. I want my birth certificate, any identifying papers (ID, social security, you name it), and anything I ever made to be burnt to a cinder or at the very least, locked away tight in a safe nobody can ever reopen. I want to have not existed. Sometimes I sit down, and I look through the art I’ve made, the novels I have unpublished on my computer, and everything else, and I just think who am I to be filling the world up with more uninspired garbage nobody is interested in? Why don’t I do something worthwhile, actually leave the world with something worth caring about, try and better it somehow in the short time I’ll be here? But instead, I continue to force “art” out of me all for the sake of nothing other than my own ego.

I used to qualify it by saying I made art to help myself cope with things. That it was my therapy, and it helped me deal with everything around me. I realize now that that’s a pretty huge lie. That was just my way to continue making shit without realizing I’d lost interest in it. But now I realize I don’t really enjoy anything anymore. I thought that after so many years I’d really found my calling, but I have no calling. I have no purpose. My art isn’t a career, it’s barely a hobby, and I have no reason to be here. Maybe I’m just going through a really rough patch, I’ll willing to entertain the idea, but…

But after a lifetime of abuse from almost every angle, of disinterest in everything I do from almost every angle, including my own at this point, why bother doing anything. Why bother even being here. What happens when you lose interest in the one thing that’s kept you around your entire life? What happens then?

What happens indeed.