Someday when I have a fully replaceable robot body I want to spend a couple years being like four and a half or five feet tall. Maybe with extensible legs so I can still get stuff off the top shelves. I bet everyone would interact with me very differently.

Probably in some ways i would like, and in some ways I would not like.

One of those shower thoughts, you know?

Meet Pushy Garnet. She is old enough to be your mom, and completely approves of whatever impossible fantasy gets your motor running. For the right price she’ll draw it.

I have decided that now that I’m a forty-something lady who will probably never try to get “a real job” ever again, I can come clean about how much of a total pervert furry I am sometimes. A while back I spent much of a year drawing crazy cartoon porn commissions as Pushy, and could have made that pay the bills if I’d wanted to. And now you can see most of what I drew as her right here on my website.

I learnt a lot as Pushy. I learnt a few things about building an audience; I learnt a lot about drawing quickly. I wouldn’t be drawing a comic directly in Illustrator if not for the time I spent knocking out weird, sloppy erotica with a bottle of raspberry lambic (Pushy’s favorite drink) at my side. I learnt something about empathy; Pushy’s job was to figure out why someone’s weird kink was hot to them, and feel that enough herself to make a joyously hot drawing. I kinda picked up a couple more absurd fantasy kinks doing that.

I still sign some of my experiments with her name. Because drawing something sexy is easy, and it provides a nice base to try new techniques on top of.

“I’d like to go out and have some breakfast,” I thought. But as I got dressed it became increasingly apparent that I really needed to do laundry. I put together a cute outfit with the intent of going out anyway, and then opened up the to-do list to tell my later self to consider this as an Important Tast That Needs Doing.
Upon thus escalating laundry from “a thing I do while procrastinating on Real Tasks” to a

• REAL TASK

with a checkbox and everything, I found myself suddenly compelled to just

• Do your laundry. It is past time.

All the scattered thoughts that nornally occupy my mind fled, and the whole of my consciousness was dedicated to

• put a load in the washer as quick as possible so I can get on with doing what I actually want to do

I felt like I was two beings at that point: a sack of meat with a set of desires and a consciousness, and a secondary electronic consciousness that it had set up to tend to its longer plans. And the external me reacted with utter disdain to treating “laundry” as something at that level: Consciousness is a privilege, not a right, Meatsack, and if you can’t get these few basic support tasks done it will be revoked until you do them. 

When I had my brain back, I thought of Manfred Mancx in the first chapter of Stross’s Accelerando. And his system of self-notifications and alerts so complicated that when someone else stole his smartglasses, they began to become him. 

Suddenly that seemed less implausible.