Tuesday, April 29, 2008

The UAF Student Art Show

Hey everybody :-)

Two of my pieces were accepted in the UAF student art show (a painting and my animation).

It opens this Thursday at 5pm in the student art gallery located in the fine arts complex on campus, and will last until 7pm. All of the work will be on display for an entire week, but if you can show up for the opening I would love that ♥

PS there will be tasty food ;-P

Monday, April 28, 2008


I finally finished my first real flash animation! I submitted it to the student art show today (hopefully they'll show it). I plan on tweaking it a bit in the future, but for now, I hope you enjoy!

© 2008 Shayna Hawkins
All Rights Reserved

I would like to give special thanks to Jess Alford, Nick Brewer, Gage Choat and Matthew Schroder. If it wasn't for their talents, this animation wouldn't have been possible.

Gage Choat: Music

Jess Alford: Incredulous Mupple Voice

Nick Brewer: Nick's Voice (he recorded the sound in NY for this project)

Matthew Schroder: Angry Mupple Voice (he helped me record most of the sound)

If you take one awesome thing and combine it with another awesome thing...

...is the product still awesome?

You decide!

I painted Futurama characters on a pair of Vans for Nick, because he is fond of both:

Happy Birthday, Buckaroo ♥

Tuesday, April 22, 2008


Sometimes, a spell of low self-esteem riddles my brain with thoughts that force me to believe I'm a hideous toad. When this happens, I take pictures of myself all prettied up using my digital camera with hopes that it will quiet my concerns.

However, due to my very short attention span and insatiable curiosity, my photo sessions usually end up being way cooler than I had originally planned...

...ladies and gentlemen! Allow me to present to you...Bearded Shay!

I may not be able to pull off dapper with a beard, but boy does it make me look handsome.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

This blog needs an enema!

This is the type of thing I do when I have something more important that I should be doing...

Mimicking her faces was harder than it looks.

Man...I am so cool.

A Letter From My Past

So a long time ago (2 years to be exact) I discovered a place called FutureMe.org, which is a website that allows you to compose an email and send it to yourself up to 30 years later. When I was 22, I knew I probably wouldn’t graduate until at least spring 2008, so I decided to write a letter to my 24-year-old-self to encourage progress and remind myself that things probably aren’t as bad as I think. I just received that letter today...

Here is the letter I wrote two years ago:

Dearest FutureMe,

How art thou? So...you’re probably finishing up your degree by now, and are more than likely stressed. But don’t be afraid. Also, you should take more time out to play canasta...I know you probably have never played it yet...but I do know that you like saying canasta...so it’s high time you learn, eh? Wow...you’re like 24 these days...almost 25...you probably have wrinkles and hair in strange places now. You better not still be smoking. You were supposed to quit March 31, 2006.

Soooo...did you get knocked up yet? If so make Jess buy you something nice...she really needs to give you something awesome...no more of that free linux bullshit she tries to throw at you all the time (okay so far it was just once, but I’m sure by now she’s tried to give you more free editions of this OS).

Well I’ll give you the low-down on what’s going on now in my life, so you can look back and say...hey...things worked out the way they were supposed to. I’m working at Pacific Movers and am taking Art 105, Econ 100, English 111, and Powerpoint (don’t remember the number right now). You also were just dumped by you writer boyfriend Steve, which I’m sure, looking back (as futureme) you understand it was for the best. You probably have someone in your life that is far better for you these days, and if not...do not dispair...this world is so flippin huge there’s bound to be someone out there who can handle your Vivaciousness. I hope you still have fly style.

Wif luv,


P.S. Buy yourself some sexy underwear.

So now, I’m going to write a response to PastMe, as it is only fair. I hate leaving messages unanswered, regardless of who they’re from...so here it goes.

Dear PastMe,

I hate to disappoint your curly-haired-self, but alas, I will not be graduating until spring 2009. I could, in theory, graduate in fall 2008, but I might go crazy and shoot someone due to the stress caused by the heavy courseload I would need to take in order to accomplish such a feat.

I’m happy to inform you, however, that I HAVE played canasta, thanks to my dear friend Becca. I also haven’t discovered any new wrinkles on my person as of yet. And as far as the hair issue is concerned, well, I recently decided that everything growing from a follicle from the shoulders down shall be harvested regularly and stored in the nearest garbage receptacle. That’s right PastMe. I...Am...Itchy. >8(

Let’s see...what else were you curious about...?

Oh! I no longer smoke, as I officially quit (again) on Christmas day, 2007, but I did have cigarettes last Saturday at the Great Cover Up. I’ve come to the conclusion, though, that since I smoked those cigarettes in the past, I only have you to blame. Knock it off, PastMe.

Now that I’ve answered your first group of questions, I would just like to point out how appalled I am at your lack of faith when it comes to my ability to properly use birth control. Your assumption that I may be pregnant at this point in my life not only hurts, but also makes me wish I had the ability to travel to the past, just so I can punch you in the face. Consider yourself lucky.

On another note, Jess hasn’t been giving me free operating systems as gifts these days. She’s actually been giving me bad-ass presents lately. Her present-giving stats are now off the hook, and she has leveled up to a level 45 GD (gift-distributor). She is a force to be reckoned with, fo sho.

So, PastMe, now that I have answered your questions, I will end this note with a summary of what is going on in my life now, just as you had 2 years ago when you wrote your letter to me.

I am currently working at the OIT Support Center on campus. It pays me WAY less than I was paid at Pacific Movers. However, my supervisor is no longer the spawn of Satan, so I actually enjoy my work. I’m also dating someone who lives over 3,000 miles away from me. Although it’s hard to know for sure whether or not he can handle "my vivaciousness" you had mentioned in your letter to me, he seems to deal with my neurosis, which stems from being so far away from him, really well. So that’s saying something. Also, he can always make me smile.

So there you have it PastMe: An update from the one and only PresentMe. I hope FutureMe enjoys reading the correspondence between the two of us when she reads this bliggity, bloggity, blag. I’d end this with some sweet advice, but you can’t really give advice to one’s past-self, now can you? I guess I’ll just have to write another letter to FutureMe instead.

Hugs and Kisses,

Shayna AKA PresentMe

PS I am currently sexy-underwear-clad. Thanks PastMe!

With my easy 6 step program...

I Carry Feces Unawares

Dear Diary,

My dog is a magician...and a mean magician at that.

Today, after Jess dropped me off at Gruening, I ventured up to the writing center to print off some letters I had written to my biological father.

During my journey, I couldn't help but wonder why I smelled like a dog musher. One of the English Dept. guys kept giving me a shifty eye. I think he was confused by the fact that I looked nice, but smelled like ass.

The stench kept coming and going, and I became concerned that my coat may have been the victim of a bowely assualt. I finally decided to go to the 3rd floor restroom and perform a thourough investigation.

I went into a stall and began inspecting every article of clothing I had on. Nothing appeared to be tainted by urine or feces, and the bottoms of my shoes were squeaky clean. I decided it was all in my head and that I should just spray myself with Hawaiin Ginger Body Spray to put my mind at ease.

As I reached for the purse in my backpack I coulnd't help but notice that the smell had returned. I began to move things around in an attempt to retrieve my fragrent mist...and then I saw it. T

There it was, sitting atop my favorite wallet, a piece of my beautiful bitch's shit.

It was INSIDE my backpack. I'm not exactly sure if Assiqtaq dropped trow on it while the bag was opened, or if I had absent-mindedly shoved a book in my bag that just so happened to have the disgusting defacation on it.

At any rate, it was quite an experience. I think everyone should dress up nice and carry around a bag containing shit to see the different reactions they receive from passersby. It will change your life.



I have the strangest dreams

Last summer I had a crazy dream and wrote a short story to describe it.


I was successfully terminated about half an hour ago.

It all started when a group of my twenty-something year old friends, some strangers, and I were being rounded up by a major news station. They wanted to interview our particular age group about some sort of terrorist tragedy that literally JUST happened 30 seconds before the herding of me, Jess, Rob Michaud, Brandon Seifert and a number of people I wasn't acquainted with.

Knots twisted and turned in my stomach as I thought about all of the things I was going to say once the reporters got to me. I was going to change the world with my words. What I was going to say wouldn't be anything less than EPIC.

However, whenever the opportunity for me to shine happens to arise something always goes wrong, fucking up all of my hopes and dreams. Today it involved me losing my right maxillary lateral. My once excited heart thickened and sank into my churning stomach the moment my tongue loosened my smallish tooth from its gums. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed as my face reddened with shame.

Stupid tooth, I thought, I knew I should have fixed it sooner.

I became nervous about being shown on national television without one of my front teeth and quickly excused myself so I could examine the remnants of my once attached chopper.

Disappointment was the only emotion I felt as I began descending the hill that once promised the recording of my profound statements. I looked behind me as I moved and my friends, still atop the hill, looked as jovial as ever.


I kept walking and scanned the area for a building with a public restroom. Suddenly, the tooth that just escaped my gum line literally leapt out of my hand and began rolling towards a construction site, increasing in size the further away it tumbled. Frustrated, I began chasing it towards the gate it was about to enter. Once my tooth became the size of a large muffin it disappeared behind the site's fence and although I desired chasing it further, I no longer had the energy to do so. I assumed it was better this way. I'd find a right maxillary lateral that wanted to be with me and respected me. I decided it was time to move on.

About a block after I was deserted, I spotted a bathroom on my right, just after a three-way intersection. As I began to cross the road to my long awaited destination I heard a voice yelling incoherently behind me. I turned around to see who could be making such a ruckus. It was the scary old white man with the scabby face who flashed me on the MACS light rail two nights before, but this time he was drunker and had icky-sticky fingers.

He began pawing at me and grabbing my arms and although he was weak, I somehow became weaker than him, unable to escape his puny grasp. I began screaming for help up the hill hoping someone would come to my rescue.

An attractive black man noticed me struggling and ceased sweeping the sidewalk in front of his store so he could run over to me as fast as possible. Relief filled my body as he began swinging his broom wildly at the perverted old man.

Sigh. My night in shining armor.

Procuring a broom myself, I too, started to clumsily attack the old man. However, I was unable to properly aim this rudimentary device and therefore ended up striking my hero several times on the leg and hip instead.

"HEY!" he yelled, "I was trying to help you! Fuck both y'all!" and with that my Romeo left.

I thought all hope was lost until a Portland squad car turned onto the road the geezer and I were battling upon. I began waving at them and yelling in an attempt to catch their attention. They noticed me and blared their sirens as they directed their vehicle towards us. I was feeling good about this until I noticed their guns were locked on me.

"What are you guys doing?! This guy's attacking me!" I screamed as bullets began escaping the chambers of their guns, narrowly missing my ankles.

I bolted, but the further away I got, the slower I became. My legs became heavy like cement and my tank was running on empty. The cops soon caught up to me and forcefully dropped me to the ground. I cried aloud and asked them to stop, while hot tears ran down my cheeks. I wasn't the person they were after. I didn't do anything wrong.

I begged and pleaded, but they didn't listen. The only response I got was "QUIET, WHORE!"


bang, bang, bang, bang, BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!!!
9 yellow dots appeared in the darkness.
Those 9 yellow dots were the bullets the officers shot into my skull.

I know it was just a dream, but that is no excuse to kill me.
I expect you all to avenge my death.

Yes, I do think about death often.

One day, I was listening to a clip of John Gibson talking about Heath Ledger (after he had passed on). The whole thing was disturbing to listen to, but there was one thing about Heath that Gibson said that really got to me.

Apparently, Gibson thought Heath was a freak because Heath had mentioned in an interview that he thought about death often. Gibson went on a tangent, basically stating that only a freak would think about death that much.

But if you think about it, most of the people in the world are constantly thinking about death. People are obsessed with the possibility that there will be another world waiting for them after they have perished. Most organized religions constantly remind their patrons to be on their best behavior so they will make it to a paradise that awaits them after death. Parents teach their children good morals so they can assure that they'll be reunited with their families in the heavens. Kings and pharoahs of the past spent their entire lives obsessing about and preparing for their death.

It's a known fact. People think about dying. It is an innate behavior that shouldn't be judged harshly.

I used to be obsessed with death. My mom told me I was a thanataphobe since the fragile age of two. I would have dreams that I would pass away and then total darkness would take over these dreams. It was frightening.

Because of this, I slept with my parents until I was seven years old. As a matter of fact, I didn't get over this fear until I was about 20 years old. I still have panic attacks every once in a while, but the older I get, the less I stress about it. I can actually think about it these days without my stomach flipping.

I can even joke about it now.

Speaking of which, a while ago I wrote a short epitaph that I would like inscribed onto my tombstone. I'm hoping my best friend and family will ensure that this is taken care of once I've passed. Feel free to add your own.


Here lies Shayna, the most decorated of all the galactic gladiators in this vast universe. She died saving Earth from the extraterrestrial lizard king, Philistine Rex, who had been harvesting our kind for his species' consumption during The Years of Trepidation. Never before has such an amazing warrior blessed the soil of this wretched planet with a presence as radiant nor with as much purpose, as Shayna Xavier, the Flawless. She will be forever missed.

May 05, 1983 - December 12, 2015

Another Day at the Office

I wrote this short story to illustrate how awful my last job was. I hope you enjoy:

Another Day at the Office

She's at it again.

A sharp noise pierces my ears. Her laugh, a noise regularly mistaken for the shrill call of a banshie, can be heard throughout the entire industrial district. She's brewing something wicked. I can tell. I can sense it.

Tish. Just saying her name makes my skin crawl.

She whispers some chants into the monitor of her computer, then pounds the letters on her discolored keyboard with her short, meaty fingers. Another piercing cackle escapes her lips, startling me, and half of my scalding hot coffee escapes my porcelain mug, gracefully diving onto my right thigh.

"Mother Fucker!!!!" I scream while I leap from my chair, trying to shake off whatever liquids that haven't fully absorbed into my slate blue jeans. The dance of shear pain continues until the burning sensation resigns. Once it does, I point at her with cold defiance and contort my face to better represent my overpowering feelings of hatred towards that evil bitch "YOU!"

My exclamation makes her grimace and she spits onto the floor. Suddenly I feel my index finger curling in an unnatural way towards the back of my hand, and it is soon accompanied by its four lengthy neighbors. DAMN HER TELEPATHIC POWERS! I fall to the floor crying in agony, trying, with little success, to ignore the cracking of my bones.

"Shit...where is it?! WHERE IS IT?!?!" I holler as I look for the cross I made out of sporks, garlic and pixie sticks. She speeds towards me and bounds onto my desk like a rabid dog ready to infect and destroy its prey. The moment the cold plastic of the cross touches my skin, I use all of my might to whip around onto my back. She attempts to pounce, but twists her body mid-air once she sees the majestic and holy marriage of stapled pixie sticks and sporks held in my left hand.

"HAH! Take that spawn of SATAN!"

Another shriek leaves her mouth, but this time no merriment can be detected. She slithers away, hissing; her body steaming from the damage caused by the cross effect. Victory is mine!

I race towards the door. Its my chance to escape! Nothing can stop me now! BWA HA HA HA!


My face hits the linoleum floor. I look down at my ankles to see the shackles the mega-beast attached to my unsuspecting limbs. She jumps onto my back and begins ripping out clumps of my hair. Paralyzing-acid drools from the corners of her lips onto my round, rosey cheeks.

"Damn you Beast Woman!" I exclaim as I begin convulsing from the handicapping serum her body excretes from her mouth. Soon she flips my motionless body over so that I am once again lying on my back. She grabs what little hair I have left on my scalp and pulls my head up so that I must face her.

The eyes...NOT THE EYES! I cant look into her eyes! But in my state, I cannot resist.

Ive got to keep a clear head. I cant let her win. The bitch, the cold demon woman! I cant let her enter my mind and fry my thoughts!

Tish is an amazing woman. Tish can make your wildest dreams come true. GIVE TISH YOUR WORTHLESS SOUL!

NOOOO! I must fight it, I cant give in! You brainwashing trollop! You evil wretch!

Tish is a good boss. Tish makes everything okay. You love it here. YOULL NEVER LEAVE! I OWN YOUR UNWORTHY MIND!

The pain! The horrible throbbing pain! I cant take much more of this, but I MUST! I have to defeat this evil demon!


Im...weakening...must fight...cant give...up...

* * *

Suddenly, I wake up. Im sitting at my desk again.

"Did you finish the manifests I asked you to do!?"

"Yes Tish. Oh! And heres your coffee. Look! I folded your napkin into a crane!" I look despairingly into her eyes, looking for a glimmer, a sign, ANY sort of expression that may represent her approval.

She takes one sip of her coffee and promptly spits it into my eyes.

"You call this coffee?!?!" she spills the rest of her cups contents onto my desk. "Clean this up!"

I fumble for the paper towels I keep hidden under my desk and try to soak up the liquid as quickly as possible so I can escape her scornful stare.

The big hand on our clock reaches 12 and the little hand finally lines up perfectly with 5 ...Quitting time. Suddenly, the break-room door swings open and one of the other employees enters the office. Tish glides back to her perch behind her desk and watches my every move.

"Hey Shayna, how was work today?" Johnny inquires smiling.

"I can never understand why I feel like quitting every morning. I absolutely love it here!"

The two of us chuckle aloud, say our goodbyes to Tish, and then leave the office together. After I drop Johnny off, I begin driving to my apartment, daydreaming about tomorrow. I get that feeling in my stomach a child gets the night before Christmas. I am barely able to contain the excitement festering in my body. I cant wait to go to work tomorrow!

She tried out poetry

I went through this phase where I wanted to be a poet.

Here are some examples of the work I produced during my blue period.

Brace yourself for sadness.


We've created our own iron curtain.
I wanted it to surround us, not separate us.

I've tried to melt it,
cast it,
bend it.
Yet manipulation just increases its width.

The many futile efforts
have fused me to its surface.

Now I'm an alloy of indifference.
I'm the curtain that keeps us distant.


you were aware it was me when I stroked you;
our movements choreographed
like a handshake only you and I knew.

my hands traveled all over, and my eyes followed.
I strived to remember each strand,
every shade,
your very texture.

I had to memorize you.
you were my baby; my first;
my little darling.

they kept checking to see if I was ready;
I wouldn't budge; I couldn't move.
salty drops escaped my eyes as I cleaned yours for the last time.
you were ready, but I wasn't.

they let me do this for an hour
before they told me it was time.

I held you close;
I felt your beating;
your weakening soul,
and I wept.

sleep my baby, sleep.
It will only take a second.

a quickened beat, two dilated eyes, a soft cry,

then nothing...

Dear E.E., Sweet Birdie

I'd carve maps into my forearms.
We know where they'd lead me.

They'd be my guides to a better place,
And yet, I'm hesitant.

Once the blade touches my skin
Your eyes invade my mind.

Turn away…don't look at me…
My hand begins to shake.

I look to my reflection,
yet your gaze replaces mine.

All I can see are those eyes;
Those sweet, innocent eyes.

Steady now, I'll take my time;
The intense stare ensues.

I struggle, but cannot fight them;
Cold steel falls to the floor.

Those eyes make me remember
Two reasons I should stay.
She Sings Sub Rosa © 2008 | Coded by Randomness | Illustration by Shayna | Design by Shayna