I just finished a shift at my new job. After mixing up two huge batches of pizza dough by hand, I’m so covered in flour that I look like Derek Hale in the Teen Wolf opening credits.

Rescue, aka tinycat, wormed her way onto my lap (unusual, since while she’s very affectionate, she’s far more prone to walking across my shoulders/chest whenever she wants attention). I was delighted by the cuddles - until she let off a torrent of ungodly hell-gas flatulence and tried to eat my earphones.

I HAVE to stop letting her hang out with Attila.

Attila the bun is fine. His litter-tray looks like a small tornado hit it, but he himself is fine and is happily gnawing on everything in sight, including his steel cage.

The fight choreography group that I train with specialises in Star Wars-styled combat, and as part of learning to develop our acting and characterisation skills we each design a character to play as onstage.

And so, meet Zola, twi’lek ex-slave, dancer, grifter and smuggler tagalong who clearly has more body-confidence than I do, judging by the impracticality of some of those outfits. Picking a character I could DO with my body-type was a tricky bit, but I found a contested bit of star wars lore about freed twi’leks leaning towards chubby on account of finally getting enough to eat for once in their lives, and thus Zola was born. She has plenty of arse and not very much class, she’ll eat anything not nailed down and quite a few things that are, she’s so far out of her depth it’s not even funny and oh my god, i’m gonna have to make those stupid head-tails now. So much vinyl.

Came home after a fantastic week with mum, looking after her busted toe (she’s doing fine) to utter chaos at home. To cap it all off, Attila decides that eating a rubber band is a brilliant idea. Apparently this isn’t uncommon for bunnies and they tend to pass them without complications, but it’s not going to be a fun 24 hours.

Blegh. Back to reality, I guess. The pile-o-crap won’t sort itself.



This was meant to be a quick warm up, but it turned into a comic that I’ve wanted to draw for a while. This is something that is extremely important to me, and I appreciate it if you read it.

A while ago, I heard a story that broke my heart. A family went a cat shelter to adopt. The daughter fell in love with a 3-legged cat. The father straight up said “absolutely not”. Because he was missing a leg. That cat was that close to having a family that loved him, but the missing leg held him back. Why?!

Many people have the initial instinct of “nope” when they see an imperfect animal. I get it, but less-adoptable does NOT mean less loveable. 9 out of 10 people will choose a kitten over an adult cat. And those 10% that would get an adult cat often overlook “different” animals.

All I want people to do is be open to the idea of having a “different” pet in their lives. Choose the pet that you fall in love with, but at least give all of them a fair shot at winning your heart.

Don’t dismiss them, they deserve a loving home just as much as any other cat. They still purr, they still love a warm lap, they still play, they still love you. Trust me, next time you are in the market for a new kitty, just go over to that one cat that’s missing an eye and see what he’s all about!

this is awesome!! as an adult-cat-adopter i whole-heartedly endorse adopting adult cats, and also cats who may have special needs— just a note tho! some special needs cats will in fact need a greater amount of care for their disabilities/needs and prospective adopters should ask about them at shelters. some cats may require more frequent vet visits, others may need medication or therapy— they still deserve good homes tho

just be sure to ask about these kinds of cats, usually shelters and their in-house vets can give you an idea of what kind of care they’ll need


Absolutely true. Both our cats are adoptees, both pedigrees from the same breeder - we found Mughi at a kill-shelter, terrified of his own shadow, but after a week of hiding he blossomed into the snuggliest, most laid back cat I’ve ever met. We contacted his breeder to see about finding him a friend and met Rescue, a special-needs cat who was returned by her previous owner. True, her allergies mean that she needs expensive hypoallergenic food and occasional shots from the vet, but she’s so pathetically grateful for any scrap of attention and follows me from room to room like a puppy. Mughi was six when we got him and he plays like a kitten. Rescue was eleven months old, still barely larger than a kitten herself, but now she’s no longer miserable and in pain she’s a bundle of energy. I’d absolutely recommend adult cats. Ours have given us endless joy, and to be honest the higher level of care Rescue requires means that she and I have forged a much deeper bond than might have otherwise occurred.

I will know that I have no joy left in my soul when I can’t have a righteous giggle at the word ‘bottom’.

Go on. Say it. Just to yourself. Even better, say it in a funny voice. It’s a funny word, a slightly naughty word, and it should be worshipped with the kind of fearful childish glee that surrounds the repetition of such words.

Bottom. Bot-tom. Botty. Bottybottybum. Nope, still clinging to a sense of immaturity that i pray i never lose, because THAT is a DAMN funny word.

My bathtub is full of Tatami mats, being soaked until they attain the approximate texture of a human neck - they will then be drained, wrapped, put on stands and used as target practice this sunday when sensei lets us handle the shinken, or very sharp swords.

I’m through the realm of excited and out the other side into a sort of serene glee. My bathroom smells like the sort of herbal tea mum mum favours and I feel a great suspicion towards.

first of the meme images - the lovely Gazztron requested Niko in clothing I normally inhabit. This is Niko in my summer gear, looking rather bloody better in it than I generally do.

first of the meme images - the lovely Gazztron requested Niko in clothing I normally inhabit. This is Niko in my summer gear, looking rather bloody better in it than I generally do.


Rescue (aka tinycat, aka sandpaper princess) managed to sneak out the door when the fridge repair-man came today. We only noticed her absence two hours later, when I spotted Mughi pacing frantically in front of the window. Sure enough, I opened the front door and Rescue came trotting up, meeping in distress. I scooped her up and carried her inside and she’s been like a little burr attached to my heel ever since. So much for the call of the wild - our poor, inbred fluffballs treat the outdoors with suspicion and confusion.

Sketches, scribbles and other informal stuff from Emily K Smith, sequential artist for Gestalt Comics.

Might contain gardening, superheroes, and a guilty addiction to eighties robots.

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