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The last time I had to memorize lines for a stage production was nearly 15 years ago–around the same time I’d seen “Vagina Monologues” in Denver. I’d just barely found out about the auditions the night before they occurred. Despite being the last one to find out. I was among the first to audition since I had to dash off to host the Austin Writers Roulette.
Unlike other stage productions I’d been a part of, this show was a fundraiser for Safe Place, which provides services for survivors of domestic violence and/or sexual assault as well as preventive, educational services. In addition to volunteering in this production, I wanted the opportunity to meet other creative, confident women. I was delighted to land the role of “The Little Coochie-Snorcher That Could” and started memorizing my lines as soon as the script was emailed to me, back in late November. I didn’t know what the acting expectations were for VM. I figured since I’d received the script so early, I had to memorize my lines. Plus, there were only two scheduled rehearsals for the Monday cast, wonderfully nicknamed “Cast Badass.”
In mid January, I met the other women for the first time at a photo shoot. That’s where I learned we didn’t have to memorize our lines. I also learned we could deliver our lines standing or sitting. Up until that point, I’d rehearsed my lines while seated. After the photo shoot, I started rehearsing at home with more animation, movement and a folding chair. My claim to fame was doing a mini burlesque routine with the chair while reciting lines about a positive sexual encounter–complete with falling out of it on cue.
At our first rehearsal, I feared my acting was too over the top. Yet, I stayed true to my interpretation. Afterwards, other VM actresses complimented my performance and said I’d raised the bar.
On the night of the performance, we opened to a sold out crowd. Four former coworkers and a fellow rouletter were among the audience members. Just before the show began, an American Sign Language interpreter, who signed for my part, came to the dressing room and gushed about how she loved my interpretation of my VM role. Although I thanked her, a small part of me worried if she’d just jinxed me.
Turns out, once I hit the stage, a welcoming wall of darkness cloaked the audience from me and the lines along with the movements flowed out of me. I didn’t flub or forget a single line. The audience response sealed the deal for me.
Afterwards, I only had one other part to play as a member of the orgasm choir who stood behind one woman who was seated in front of us. She recited about 2/3 of her monologue before we joined her on stage. I did the “black woman orgasm” by screaming “oh shit!” with three other black women. I also had the “tortured yogi orgasm,” where I made a protracted scream, which ended with a drawn out “om.”
With such a large cast, we had to come out on stage in several groups of four and then take individual bows when the director said our names. I did a full curtsey and enjoyed another fabulous applause.
Continuing my gift-making quest, the latest effort involved transforming an old, colorful T-shirt into a gift for one of my nieces.
I unfortunately have the habit of overthinking some simple things. I won’t even divulge how long I contemplated the best way to make the initial cut. Seems pretty straightforward, but I like to visualize things first before diving in, especially since I didn’t have a second bright blue T-shirt to sacrifice for the cause.
Having already made this handy strip of measuring paper, I used it to make the chalk lines across the T-shirt. At this point, I thought I was home free. Everything looked logically organized.
Only after I started cutting out the strips, which should’ve spooled into one continuous piece, did I realize my error.
After screwing up about half of the effort and trying two other things, I finally corrected my cutting pattern to achieve one continuous piece. Despite my cutting challenge, all was not lost. I got back on track by cutting out the lengths of fabric I needed.
Only a few of the strips had to be tied together with my fiasco pieces.
Starting with the four longer pieces, I looped them, doubled them up and then braided them, using a clipboard to help keep the growing braid in place.
I braided two more rows onto the first row, using just a slight modification to the braiding technique.
The moment of truth came when I tried the necklace on. I can never be sure how any fickle teenager will like anything, but I for one am very proud of the end product.
Last year, I began teaching Adult Basic Education (ABE) classes in the evening, Monday through Thursday on January 5th. At the time, my nonprofit employer had just merged with an alternative, year-long adult education center. As a result, my first day ended with a champagne toast. Of course, this had nothing to do with the fact I’d just completed my first day of work. Just terrific timing on my part.
Photo Credit: Anand Ragunathan
So it’s rather fitting my last day of work dovetailed with another celebration: graduation. How wonderful I had the opportunity to mark my yearlong service in this way.
Photo Credit: Anand Ragunathan
My last day at work also coincided with my second day of work at my new job, tutoring math full-time at a middle school. So, while my body still adjusted to working during the day, I had to rush home, eat, shower and dress up. I believe I pulled it off.
Photo Credit: Anand Ragunathan
My only real duty prior to graduation was making sure the photographer knew which shots we wanted him to take. I relished the opportunity to “help the photographer.” After all, how often do I get this gussied up on a Tuesday?
Photo Credit: Anand Ragunathan
Of course, he arrived at the venue before me and had already received instructions on the shots we wanted. Nonetheless, I helped him get the exposure correct.
Photo Credit: Anand Ragunathan
Although we had a total of 55 students who’d successfully completed at least one of the four different educational courses we offer, I was especially proud of this particular student since she had originally been in my Chemistry class when I taught at an AISD high school.
Photo Credit: Anand Ragunathan
Back then, she’d “disappeared.” In 2015, she enrolled into our ABE program, followed by the computer skills course, Job Readiness Program (JRP), and completed all the requirements of the GED (General Education Diploma) program, which consisted of four rigorous exams that some college graduates would fail. All that accomplishment along with giving birth to her son!
Photo Credit: Anand Ragunathan
Throughout the school year, which goes year-round, the students formed friendships and celebrated one another’s achievements. So, this graduation provided a wonderful sense of closure as they moved forward with the rest of their lives.
Photo Credit: Anand Ragunathan
Our key note speaker was Dr. Patricia Pickles, who I’d met at a free women’s empowerment conference, sponsored at a local community college. She was one of three women who I’d invited to speak to my students. Her moving talk brought both tears and newfound motivation to my class. In my email, where I thanked her for speaking to my students, I attached the volunteer documents since I wanted her to tutor at least once a week since my students liked her so much.
I was highly surprised a few weeks later when I discovered that she’d joined the organization as an Americorps volunteer–a much bigger commitment than the one I’d previously hope for.
So, I was not at all surprised that she accepted the opportunity to speak to the graduates. As per her usual heart-warming style, Dr. Pickles related some of the struggles from her life with what the graduates were going through.
Photo Credit: Anand Ragunathan
Although a handful of my students had advanced through another course, I had the opportunity to hand one of my students his certificate for ABE. He was my symbolic good bye to all my evening adult students. My colleagues respected my request not tell the students I was leaving. As a matter of fact, I’d written all my ABE students, in a personalized collaged card, a note of encouragement for them to continue working toward their educational goal, which was delivered the next night.
For a second year in a row, I’ve started the new year with a new job. Let the games begin!
Have you noticed the spring in my step, the blush on my cheeks, the joy in my eyes? Why yes, I’m happier than I’ve ever been because I’ve recently got engaged. Fully engaged in my life, that is. Previously, I was just busy.
I’ve always been a super organized person, making lists, grouping errands and penciling in cool events—long before social media, smart phones or even the internet! My mind operated in hyper drive. I always had something creative to do. As soon as I figured it out, I made it happen. No matter how half-assed the end result. Better half ass than full ass and smart-ass is better than dumbass.
When I was in college, I walked into a bookstore and the vast collection of interesting books I couldn’t possibly read in my lifetime nearly overwhelmed me. Growing up, I’d heard some variation of the mantra “books before boys,” which fit in perfectly with my nerdy self. What I didn’t know at the time was that unless I prioritized finding a boyfriend/husband/whatever, I would not just suddenly find someone.
If you believe that love just happens when you’re not looking for it, then you’ve never met me. Love only happened to me when I pounced on it. It’s my personality, you see. I had to learn how to be more thoughtful of others, a better listener and within the past few years, empathetic.
I realized in my 20s that I was far too self-absorbed to be tied down to some presubscribed role I thought most heterosexual men wanted from a woman: a combination baby-making and domestic labor machine. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a very diligent and dependable worker, but that’s not the kind of labor I want to do. And in this century, the 21st, one wouldn’t think possessing a female set of genitalia and being heterosexual would still, STILL in the minds of modern heterosexual men, sentence us to that ancient combo role.
Every time I shared my exciting life’s schedule with a man, he’d react as if it had to change, not realizing my scheduled activities reflected my identity. To be fair, one has to schedule time with a significant other, but that’s something I’ve always battled with, even as a teenager. When I first started dating, most guys couldn’t keep my attention, which is best held by intellectual pursuits, combined with my creativity.
The best person to entertain me is myself. Not some man, who comes along, equipped with his own desires, priorities and baggage. Nothing makes me happier than spending a lot of time with myself, doing whatever the hell that captures my attention, usually in the form of writing, researching, creating art and participating in other creative expressions.
How to best share that with another person? I used to think I’d find THE guy who wanted to do all the things I wanted to do. Then I learned 1) that was what female friends were for; and 2) what I really wanted was a weekend boyfriend, which does NOT include married men or men who are in a committed relationship, but have an “understanding” with their woman. I’m not an understanding woman and I don’t share men. It’s not merely due to jealousy, but I’m also a borderline germophobe.
Relax. You don’t have to tell me how unrealistic I am. I began to feel like a relationship pariah in my thirties, partially due to the fact I was living in developing countries, where people married, reproduced and died young. OK, so maybe they were weren’t all married. But when I was 38, living in Honduras, I was the same age as the average Honduran grandmother.
I swear to you, I didn’t look like someone’s grandma. Having reliable access to food, safety and recreational exercise slows the aging process. Yet, I wasn’t going through the domestic drama of a relationship and/or child-rearing.
How wonderful to return to the States and discover other older adults living by themselves, with no interest in getting married, regardless of whether or not they had reproduced. One of the most beautiful things about being half way to 90 is that very few fools utter that I can still have children if I want. As meticulously as I plan things in my life, I’m quite sure I would’ve birthed someone long before now had I wanted to. And for the record, I don’t want to adopt children either. It’s childfree for me!
My art, performances and my math and science students who I’ve taught over the years are the fruits of my labor. Besides, I have nieces and nephews. I see in them that my good looks and brilliance have passed on to the next generation without the necessity of having to birth and raise them myself.
There’s some backlash against childfree adults being selfish. A common question is, “Who will take care of you when you’re old?” Why, my money, of course!
More importantly, when I’m old, I’ll reflect how wise I was the day I decided to bravely, selfishly, love myself.
I nearly jumped outta my skin when a friend told me how lucky I was to have teaching as my “fall back career.” I wished I could’ve traveled through the cell phone to cuss her out in person. She’d caught me off guard, sliding that insult disguised as a compliment into our otherwise friendly, yearly Thanksgiving Day phone call.
I realize George Bernard Shaw wrote, “Those who can’t do, teach,” but I’m beginning to think he was merely jealous of the lifelong passion one derives from doing what one truly loves. Yes, there are people who trudge through jobs they hate, day in and day out just to make ends meet. They are sellouts. Some of them are teachers, but really they could be soullessly doing anything for money. Even writing plays.
Yet, once I resigned from teaching at an Austin public school, I’d finally combined both my passions for teaching and writing as a freelance editor and writer of online educational materials. I wrote Biology lessons, imagining how engaged students would be with the interactive exercises I created. I actually missed being with students, but not asshole administrators.
As fate would have it, I ended my last freelance educational writing contract the first week of December 2014 and didn’t get another until the last week of December 2015. In between time, I taught an evening adult basic education class, which allowed me to do yoga, paint and write in the mornings and interact with students in the evenings.
I loved it. One of the best lessons I learned, I’d actually heard myself telling a student, who thought it was incredulous that I enjoyed teaching math. I told her, “Because I know how to teach math, I will always have a job.”
I must explain that’s not the only reason I enjoy teaching math, but as any adult education instructor will tell you, adult students are mostly motivated to return to school because they are tired of dead-end, minimum-wage jobs with questionable job security and most likely, an openly inhumane supervisor. So, highlighting a clear economic link between understanding math, a subject majority of my students struggle with, and job security, is a good thing.
Later, it hit me: as long as I can teach math, I will always have a job. Eureka! Never had I picked out a specific skill, besides being fabulous at strategic thinking and organization, both of which I attribute to mathematical reasoning, from the myriad of teaching skills, and saw the marketable commodity I’ve honed for 20 years and counting.
Once I became a licensed teacher with a Masters in Education, I thought my career path was set. Long ago, people remained with the same company and/or career throughout their entire professional life. That world began to disappear about 40 years ago and the rise of the Internet and its technological cousins accelerated this transformation.
My career journey traveled a little off the beaten path since I began both teaching and writing as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I’ve leapt from one international, exotic location to the next, teaching math and science. Never once had I felt I’d fallen backwards. As a matter of fact, I credit my international teaching career for helping out my fall back writing career!
Just to show that the universe continues to conspire with me, I recently had the inspiration to start training parkour, thanks to watching one of my nephews train. That’s a perfect analogy for how I now visualize my career trajectory: leaping, swinging, climbing and flipping from one challenge to the next, using whichever skills I need at the time to meet my personal and professional goals.
Before I learned sex positions were named for what’s done to a woman, I knew women weren’t created to be passive recipients.
Before I learned oral sex was sex, I knew it should be reciprocated.
Before I learned most of a man’s fascination with his own penis was the fact he could see it, I knew women had genitalia worthy of attention.
Before I learned some men couldn’t climax while wearing a condom, I still knew I had the right to be protected.
Before I learned some guys thought inserting “just the tip” was an acceptable work around to wearing a condom, I knew the tip was where rogue sperm and STIs hung out.
Here’s some anatomical irony: men boast and compliment one another by stating how big their testicles are; or urge another man to be courageous by suggesting he “grow a pair”; and will even express admiration for an assertive woman by saying she’s really “ballsy”. Yet, testicles are as fragile as an overhyped male ego. On the other hand, vaginas are designed to withstand a pounding. So, shouldn’t it be more complimentary to tell a man he’s a big pussy?
I wasn’t part of the hoopla of moviegoers for Star Wars, but I jumped on the opportunity to attend a Star Wars fine arts opening. This art gallery swooped up two of the officially-commissioned Star Wars artists for this event and, most important, invited attendees to dress up. Oh, boy! I shopped at my favorite costume place, Goodwill, in order to hook up my Princess Leia look. I couldn’t find a futuristic-looking white skirt; so I bought a white curtain and wore it upside down.
The second most challenging thing was transforming my dreads into Princess Leia buns. Once I made two braids, I curled them into buns, which I pinned with one mighty bobbie pin. Hardly anyone else dressed up for the occasion. Yet the quality of the art was amazing.
First, I spoke with Rob Kaz. He was busily painting in acrylic on a flat canvas. He agreed with me that practicing on pressed cardboard, such as cereal boxes, is an excellent way to go. I even told him how I cut up my crappy cardboard paintings to make greeting cards out of them.
Allison Lefcort shared a little of her process, showing us her sketches, which she goes by when making the final masterpiece.
Another Princess Leia posed with me. I love that we were both drinking gimlets, thanks to the alcohol sponsor. Of course, I left my card with some of the women who worked with the sponsor. Perhaps one day, they’ll come to my show. Or better yet, sponsor it.
The vividness of this painting made it look like an aquarium. Of course, the first clue was Yoda standing there.
I didn’t want to burden my friend with being my personal photographer, but I had to capture as much art as possible. The exhibit almost made me want to see the movie, but knowing me, I’ll wait for it to come on Netflix.
Of course, I had to pose with the guy who brought a light saber. He was happy to cooperate.
I’d rigged up my wrap; so I could cover my head when I wanted and it wouldn’t fall off my shoulders when uncovered. Worked well while posing with the dark lords.
Here’s my favorite Yoda picture.
I liked this poster since it shows the universality of Star Wars.
This marked the first New Year’s Eve where I attended a birthday party at the start of my celebration. I’d lived in Austin for 6 years, passing the chain seafood restaurant as I fetched myself to and from yoga, never once stopping in until NYE 2015. I enjoyed the small group of poets gathered as much as I enjoyed my entree–coconut popcorn shrimp!
Hours later, I attended another NYE party, hosted by one of my cousins and former capoeira teacher.
One of his roommates co-hosted the party. He had been teaching his girlfriend to play Go, but I was so excited to see a Go board that I intruded on the lesson. They were both good sports about it.
I’d told my cousin during his birthday party a month ago that I’d wanted to cook one of my homemade lasagnas in their gas oven. Now I’m thinking it should be a lasagna and Go party.
This was the only police officer either my cousin or I ever want to see at a party.
I loved hanging out with the “ol’ capoeira gang,” including some new ones who started after I stopped officially training. I made sure I took pictures with everyone before the ball dropped.
We were both scared when the photographer got this close to take our picture, but it turned out better than we expected.
The first live music I heard in 2016 was this makeshift samba percussion group. I promptly shed my decorative jacket and sambaed my heart out.
An hour earlier, I got this shot from my immediate family, commemorating the east coast celebration–all with sparkling apple cider in hand!
One of my Christmas gifts to myself was a pair of polarized, no-line bifocals. After looking at all the female frames, I wandered over to the male section and found an attractive, cheaper frame, which didn’t have a bunch of fake jewels or girlie bling along the temples. I’d previously worried if I’d walked away with yet another pair of birth control glasses until I saw my younger nephew, the epitome of “in style,” wearing a similar frame when I arrived to their house.
After surviving “Flintstone Airline,” where one a) is charged either $30/40/60 for the first checked bag, depending on how soon one pays; b) has the option of paying an additional $50 for reclining seat; and c) must pay for every snack or drink besides a free small cup of water–with or without ice, nonetheless; and d) surviving my 18-year-old niece’s driving from the airport home, I then figured out that my luggage had not burst after all. Some lowlife airline worker had slashed my luggage from inside the outer pocket and above the zipper.
Initially, I only cared that one of my most cherished creature comforts, my night guard, had fallen out. As I transferred my things from the attacked luggage into the nifty second-hand luggage, I discovered an empty purse I’d packed had been stolen. I jumped through the hoops of reporting it online, but those clowns at “Flintstone Airline,” who will never get my money a second time, preceded to tell me a contradicting procedure for tracking down my property.
Strangely, I felt worse about the washing machine breaking down. As usual, I’d opened the lid, put in my dirty laundry and the liquid detergent, closed the lid, pushed power and it malfunctioned. I sought help from my niece, then my sister. I remembered something flying out when I’d opened the lid. I saw it on the floor, slid it into a slot and it worked! Well, not in the traditional sense of “worked.” The locking system no longer unlocked. One of my sisters and I took turns, using a putty knife, jimmying the washing machine open–a newfound skill we learned on YouTube.
On the eve of Christmas Eve, my sister and her husband, treated the family to a limo ride to the National Theatre in DC to watch “Motown: The Musical.” They had successfully conned all of us into believing that we were taking two cars to the venue.
My brother-in-law had even taken his second bourbon-laced eggnog to go, all the while my mother politely nagged him every step of the way. He juiced us well, stating that the police didn’t write tickets during the Christmas holidays.
A comment that baited me into cautioning him about his logic.
The ten of us fit comfortably with all the grandkids in the middle and the adults at either end.
My sister and her husband sat in the back seat, facing forward.
My parents sat in front of them and my other sister and I sat together in the only rear-facing seat. After all, how often does one get to ride backwards? As much as I enjoyed the comfort of the limo, I wasn’t a big fan of the projected beams of light, primarily because there was always a rifle scope of light projected on my father.
Despite the rainy weather, we arrived at the venue in plenty of time. My nieces and I followed one of the usher’s advice to use the bathroom prior to the show.
I love that my mother took this forbidden picture inside the theatre. It’s an unexciting shot other than it wasn’t supposed to be taken in the first place. The true excitement was the musical itself, enveloping us within many popular Motown songs with an intertwining narrative in between songs.
Afterwards, we ate at a jewel of a greasy spoon. This restaurant was as much of an example of the American dream as were the intermingled stories behind “Motown: The Musical.”
Toward the end of dinner, the matriarch restaurant owner came out to bus our table.
She graciously paused her business as usual to pose for a few pictures with Mom and Dad.
She posed with my sister and her husband, who are small business owners themselves.
I sampled the 3-and 7-year tequilas my brother-in-law had picked up while vacationing in Mexico during Thanksgiving. Despite my most persuasive suggestions, he didn’t want to spare a single shot of either tequila for a coconut margarita. Over ice was fine, but not my favorite for such a strong drink outside of medical purposes.
Here’s the classic calm-before-the-storm shot on Christmas Eve.
My younger niece was the first of my gift recipients to open her Christmas present from me.
Out of all the things I’d stuffed into that gift box, she was most tickled to discover the return of a set of workout clothes she’d forgotten she’d left during her summer visit with me.
My sister also received one of her old bathing suits she’d lent me last Christmas. Of course, I gave more than her returned stuff.
The two tops I’d gifted her looked as if they’d fit.Then, she finally got to the one gift in the box I’d been looking forward to her seeing.
Since she has low visual acuity, she wore her powerfully magnified reading glasses and presumed she understood what the small, colorful package contained.
Her guess was a “candy ring pop.” When I whispered in her ear which adult sex toy she held in her hand, she burst out laughing, even my nieces and nephews were briefly torn away from their self-absorbed pursuit of gift-opening.
I only captured a fraction of the joy this little surprise package brought her.
Purple, the color of royalty and healing, was also the signature color of my mother’s “Red Hatters” women’s group. I wasn’t sure if she realized the reason I gifted her the shirt was because it marked the 150th anniversary of our emancipation from slavery, but at least she liked the color and it was the right size.
As she pulled out the other gift, she exclaimed, “This better not be a cookbook!” Well, sometimes you get what you don’t wish for. Yet, she sweetened to the idea of it once she realized one of her own recipes and three of mine where represented.
My younger nephew changes so much every year, I can never be sure what size he is, what his tastes are nor his newfound hobbies. Yet, I remembered his sister had looked into buying him a comic book character T-shirt, which helped me at least pick out some reading material.
My brother-in-law was the hardest to gift. He doesn’t need anything that’s within my price range; so, I made him a pride box, which represented his business and fraternity. I threw in a shaker, plastic rocks “glass,” and swag bottle opener.
I also made my father a pride box. His box had an Air Force theme since he’d served from 1960 to 1981. I threw in two Texas lottery scratch off tickets–neither one was a winner.
Continuing my mission to distribute entertaining reading material, I gifted my other niece the most anime-looking comic books I could find among some other random things I’d given her.
The potpourri of gifts I gave my other sister consisted of a bottle opener, an entrepreneur’s purse, a “Step It Up” T-shirt, and a comic book. After all, she’s an artist who enjoys a drink every now and again and wants to run her own business one day.
For my other nephew, who regularly makes excuses why he can never make his way to the library, I filled his gift box with reading material: a political magazine, an anthology of African American literary synopses, and comic book.
Three chefs in my family prepared Christmas breakfast: bacon, Dad’s famous hash browns, eggs and toast with molasses.
She couldn’t wait to eat her “stocking stuffer.” (Actually, the cone was in the stocking with a note about where to find the ice cream.)
The yearly nieces and nephews photo.
Dad with his daughters.
Here’s Dad’s attempt to take our picture with Mom’s iPad. Notice my lone dreadlock on the right.
My nephew took over the effort to capture Mom with us.
I’m so happy I was able to visit some extended family members during this trip “home.” I love this shot in particular since Mom and this cousin grew up together as friends when they had to walk to and from a segregated, single-room elementary school. Look at them now.
My nephew received his green band for successfully testing to the next level in parkour. Since he’s visiting me for a week this summer, I’m going to take a few parkour classes myself, so I can be ready for a single class with him. The way I see it, I may be half way to 90, but as long as I can go at my own pace and no one’s kicking at my head, this cannot be worse than capoeira. As a matter of fact, as a little girl who loved to climb trees and play on the monkey bars, I would’ve loved parkour as a child…if girls had been allowed.
Banana pancakes for my last breakfast while visiting with my family–what a delicious send off!
How appropriate the last painting in this series shows the twins celebrating their newly heightened enlightenment. I feel the same way since I’ve learned a tremendous amount about painting and I’m ecstatic to have completed just in the nick of time–the weather turned very windy and cold the next day after I put the last dabs of paint onto this canvas.
This scene takes place atop Mt. Bonnell, the highest point in Austin, which isn’t really all that high at 775 feet above sea level. Yet the twins return to Austin in more elevated spirits than they left for a “happily ever after for now” (HEAFN) kind of ending. I’m not actually looking to write a sequel although I’d love to use some of the main characters, minus the title fantasy characters, my beloved Infinity and Negativa.
I scarcely captured all 24 canvases in this shot. The chandelier features prominently, signaling the series is done. Now comes the next learning curve for me: researching the most cost-effective way to scan all of them for the book. Additionally, I’m going to dust off the manuscript (since it’s all electronic, I’m really being figurative here) and revise it before starting the self-publishing process.
I’m entering the new year with two part-time jobs. It’ll be exciting to see which one offers me a full-time contract first. I’ve maximized my creative time while working a part-time job in 2015. Now, I’ll need to maximize my money with a full-time job in order to bring The Adventures of Infinity & Negativa to life.
