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FAQ - Frequently Asked Quently's
Mr. Dtabog, I'm deeply in debt from Art School, what should I do?
Mr. Dtabog thinks that you need to work, you choose an expensive to go to fully knowing the expenses. There's a level to the world, a level of threat and excitement that brings in the money. Some people bring in the money through nepotism and if you're in debt, then it's clear you're not getting your expenses paid by other people. No matter how it feels, you need to work, and you need to put you're heart into it. The World is a threat to you, it's threatening because it's scary and demanding you justify yourself to it artistically. This is the death knell, the string plucked in your heart sounding the silencelessness of Quietus. You have found the thing all artists search for: their will to live. Don't step away from that feeling, that's a good feeling. It's fear. It's a good fear, a human fear. Humbling, it humbles, you are worth something and now the world is asking you "how much"? Your answer is in what you do, not what you say, even if you're a writer. The extant of human experience comes from the allowance for the lines between your words to be filled with Quietus. You may have been tortured in a Gulag, you may have been coasted by maidens, you may have never seen Gold, Silver, or even had the pleasure to read Simulacrum, but it matters not. So take your arms and write your words or paint your paints or model your models agains that sea of troubles, but you have to do it with your arms. You can only live from drowning if you use all of you, otherwise you can only survive.
Mr. Dtabog, my girlfriend makes mean comments about my situation and it hurts my feelings, what do I do?
You're asking because you don't want to know. You're asking because you already know how you feel. Let them sift through you and act, you're a sieve of your experiences and you don't want the reality of your spiritual panhandling to come up empty. Not every rock that glitters is gold, sometimes it's fools gold. Sometimes you need to let go of Fools Gold. It can be hard. Mr. Dtabog has had to let go of so much. Mr. Dtabog is well aware of letting go, he's always going. He walks and walks and yet it always seems to be going nowhere. He's tired of walking. Mr. Dtabog is tired of "let's go"'ing, whether through excitement or the drudgeries of the next step forward. You can never stop, not until you're dead. If you're dead, then you stop. So let go, let yourself seem them for who they are and let's go forward.
Mr. Dtabog! I acted on your advice and now I've hurt someone out of anger. I felt that I handled it poorly, what should I do?
Your feelings are all over the place and you're panicking. You're drowning like a person without arms in a sea of troubles. What should you do? How often do you ask that in your life? How long will it take until you decide to live. You wanted to act and you did, now you're feeling feelings and you think that your feelings that you're feeling are so important that everyone should feel the same feeling you're feeling. Does that feel wrong? Does it feel right? You write asking if what you did was right or wrong and feel that you could have handled it better. When will you learn that your actions have consequences? Sometimes the consequences are worth it, but if you're drowning in them, maybe you need to learn how to swim. Find a body of water and submerge yourself in it, then come out when you need air. How would you feel about life if you didn't drown? Sometimes you feel as if all there is is drowning. You choose the place you drown, so learn to swim instead of wading, otherwise you'll only be wallowing in the shallow end of living.
Mr. Dtabog, how do I earn a cameo in your story that you're currently telling as you're living through it?
If you want a cameo in Mr. Dtabog's life, then cameo as yourself. Live. Live a life. Be living within some space that happens to contain Mr. Dtabog within the area at some particular, noticeable distance and you shall cameo. If you want to have a greater gurantee rather than some Pachinko-esque chance of our simultaneous recognition, then send a piece of fanart of anything related to Mr. Dtabog's Journies at Mrdtabog@gmail.com alongside any sort of description, image, or idol which represents who you are. When Mr. Dtabog is able to access both a computer, the internet, and the specific email within the specific circumstances, you'll enter into Mr. Dtabog's Mindspace and have a higher chance of appearance at some point in time, guranteed to happen before the end of his journies. Hopefully. Unless there is some happenstance where there is such an influx of fan-art which renders Mr. Dtabog overwhelmed to an impossible degree of implementing everything, in which case you understand what would happen in that happenstance. Mr. Dtabog's stance on that happenstance is clear, so clearly your mission enacts those conditions and you may be doomed to a self-fulfilling prophecy. Mr. Dtabog does not prophesize, this is your own prophecy you are enabling by desiring it. Desire it anyways and email your fanart and some representation of who you are to mrdtabog@gmail.com
Now that we got that out of the way, let's get to the story. The comic, the WebComic for Mr. Dtabog. The name of that comic? Well it's right here
It's...
Now that you have seen the only time that you'll see the title, here's a table. A table of contents.
| table of contents | |
| chapter 1 | the beginning of dtabog |
| chapter 2 | the second chapter of dtabog |
| chapter 3 | the third dtabog |
| chapter 4 | the reckoning of dtabog |
| chapter 5 | mr dtabogs holiday |
In the beginning there was nothing, then at some point there was Mr. DTABOG. Mr. Dtabog is a supple thirty-three year old man, he wishes to be a 「Director」. Sometimes he's Mr. Dtabog, sometimes he's Mr. DTABOG, and sometimes Mr. Dtabog has an assistant. No matter what Mr. Dtabog may seem to be, Mr. Dtabog is Mr. Dtabog. It can be confusing. One way to tell is knowing that Mr. Dtabog will always move forward, that's how you know it's Mr. Dtabog. He's sitting right now but his mind is moving forward. Mr. Dtabog is sitting on a little log next to some most delicious bugs. He will not eat these bugs, eating bugs is for frogs, pangolins, and adolescent lions with a skittish disposition. One such lion was speaking to him now. It hung from a tree nearby the most delicious bugs and the lion licked its possibly delicious lips. Mr. Dtabog could not tell you how it hung, the lion was shimmering, fading within and without like a non-descript gentleman at a party. When it's tail swung, it pendulumed back and forth as if time froze for brief hitches, the blur of the motion hanging in the air like the shadow of movement in "Nude Descending the Stairs, No. 2".
I do apologize dear reader, you might not know the painting. I have provided it above. You'll thank me for torturing Mr. Dtabog later.
"Found yourself in ardent hues?"
"Antipodal start."
"Morning springs come dripping dues."
too much at once, you'll scare them off.
Spoke the Lion, its tail lulled, reversed, then reversed again.
Mr. Dtabog stared from his log, the most-delicious bugs beside him did not follow suite. Mr. Dtabog dared not ask the question of which there were few. Delirium seems to be the champion of the day.
"A beating drum fills your heart."
"You live, I smile."
"For no, there's no map or chart."
he does
his grin grows wider.
Mr. Dtabog eyed them like a curious customer at a ramshackle fish market. He did not understand what they were saying. "I do not understand what you are saying." Mr. Dtabog verbally agreeing with the narration. The lion chuckled and someone else did too. There's two, that's more than one, and he didn't understand what they were saying. Their laughter brought forth horrid thoughts, their laughs felt like a fool cackling at something only they would find funny. Static from the television, an old man being hit by the Titanic, a fat kid in the school talent show about to play his tuba, unknowingly filled with jelly, right as his teacher comes on stage.
random, hurtful, poetic in nature.
How horrid these thoughts, Mr. Dtabog thought, and then caught himself in the nook of his mind burying itself into a foolish thought. What is a ramshackle? Does that mean they would imprison goats? spoke a crook from the nook of Mr. Dtabog's mind. "Do you imprison goats?" he asked the lion, ignoring the other voice despite its sudden deafening loudness.
"Here but for a while."
"Purgatorio."
"Purify your profile."
defenestration station baby!
Mr. Dtabog is privy to the ins and outs of the world. One could say he is worldly, even go so far as world-weary. Mr. Dtabog looked at the lions tail and could not make heads or tails of any of it. "What the fuck are you even saying?" Mr. Dtabog uncharacteristically gets to the heart of the matter. "Mr. Dtabog sees the stylistic choice of your poetic speech, as Mr. Dtabog is privy to himelf, but again Mr. Dtabog posits in the most positive way Mr. Dtabog's Protons can ionize: "What the fuck are you even saying?"". Twice now he swore, as many as his quotation marks, and the horrid laughter returns. The Lion had not moved. Unnervingly still sat the lion and Mr. Dtabog stood, the hair on his arms standing at attention like long rows of pylons called to life by the thundering of his nerves.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still. The Lion was Still.
what rhymes with purgatorio?
__WWWWWWWWW__
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*WWWWWW *WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW* WWWWWW*
*WWWWWW *WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW* WWWWWW*
*WWWWWWW *WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW* WWWWWWW*
*WWWWWWWW *WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW* WWWWWWWW*
*WWWWWWWWW *WWWWWWWWWWW* WWWWWWWWW*
*WWWWWWWWW WWWWWWWWW*
*WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW*
""WWWWWWWWW""
There was something here that felt beyond Mr. Dtabog. Something about everything they were doing that made him feel like he was missing some crucial element to understand what was going on. Perhaps an item like a glyph reader, blacklight, or holy relic might clear things up. Yet here was Mr. Dtabog, standing in this clearing beside his resting log as an audience laughs at him. The most delicious frogs accentuate the chorus with their croaking, finding the cackling unnatural enough to not be a predator. The Lion and the Lion's jovial, invisible remora faded from sight, taking their mockery with them. All Mr. Dtabog could glean from whatever the hell was going on was the mention of Purgatorio. Mr. Dtabog knows these things and understood them innately.
Mr. Dtabog ignored the floating update text, the announcer better suited for a commercial about the new Xtreme Cheetos Blast energy-drink (now in a bag!), and whatever bullshit jargon that came with it. Mr. Dtabog has had enough shit right now, there was only one path forward and he felt as skittish as the floor looked. The floor vanishes often you see, as you can see in the image above.
I've hidden the image, Purgatorio is an eye-sore. Plus I do cherish any opportunity to make Mr. Dtabog look like a fool.
Mr. Dtabog ignored that too, strong was his ability to ignore. Except when the floor is vanishing beneath you. This was not the first weird event to happen today to Mr. Dtabog, nor was it the first time he encountered that fucking Lion. Obnoxious public transportation, the Lion rhyming about the fucking Sun, a bureaucratic system worse than any Mr. Dtabog has ever known: these were some of the weird events that had happened already today. Mr. Dtabog was ready to paint "Rude ascending the stairs, #2 - fuck that Lion". Mr. Dtabog pressed onwards, the ever vanishing floor snapping to attention under his first step like a butler for the ultra-rich serving as their makeshift bridge so they can cross over a dirty puddle. Mr Dtabog's second step swung forth like the stupid fucking Lion's tail that he hates fuck you piece of shit Lion, and the floor rose in response, bringing a wall of extra geometry. Mr. Dtabog kicked it once accidentally. The pain reminded Mr. Dtabog of the Lion's poem about the Sun.
Mr. Dtabog attempting to recite the Lion's poem but cannot do that weird echoey, ephemeral bullshit:
"Each day you journey skyward."
"At night, you will rest."
"Now obey the rules you've heard".
Mr. Dtabog remembers also telling the Lion that its poem structure is too restrictive and the middle stanza makes it all flow stupidly. The Lion only laughed. Mr. Dtabog hates how that Lion laughs. Mr. Dtabog has gotten himself into a tizzy, the Thorn is activating. Mr. Dtabog's jaw is clenching, painful memories are flowing in, a history of pain and humiliation. Some of the memories even actually happened. It was time to sleep. Mr. Dtabog decided that it was that time. The ascent would begin tomorrow morning. Mr. Dtabog sat down, resting his sore back on the trusty log. His eyes fluttering shut, the monocolor sky above him broken only by the slow turning of the Great Plumeria at the apex of the hill. A waking dream of being a director give way to Jungian abstraction. The soft-wind turns of the lesser plumeria gently call Mr. Dtabog to sleep. He's shutting his eyes. They're closing. Mr. Dtabog is now no longer sitting with his eyes open, he can't see. Goodnight Mr. Dtabog. Mr. Dtabog teleports to a sunlit plaza where several hundred furry characters are jumping.
One of, if not THE, most despisable eccentricities of the "talented" Mr. Dtabog is that he constantly moves his hands around. Even now, with his eyes shut, narrating and speaking to himself, he is still gesturing. He doesn't even know he teleported.
big hamster can eat small hamster...
mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog
mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog
mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog mr dtabog
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