I hate migraines, and the way it resembles the awful condition that shark week used to sometimes bring, before I obliterated it with this magic matchstick in my arm. I hate when my conditions leave my brain a knotted mess of noodles, my thoughts and coherence and functioning scrambled. Ideas and inspirations and ambitions too vague to cup in my hands and examine, much less pour onto paper. Organization doesn't exist. Execution is a myth.
A collection of assorted autobiographical zines and short comics about living with mental illnesses and physical disabilities, and the general struggles of life.
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