mini comic about me getting my licence a few years ago
seen from Brazil

seen from Malaysia

seen from China
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Italy
seen from China

seen from Australia

seen from Netherlands

seen from France
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Mexico
seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Canada

seen from Austria
mini comic about me getting my licence a few years ago

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
I hate the smell of hospital soap
silly work thingies because itās 90% of my life rn
Based off a very silly incident at work
i drew some of my diary pages into a thingy

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Little comic based off a very funny interaction me and my granny had
iāve been drawing these little comics based off sketches from my last nz trip.
Most Embarrassing Memory
The earliest memory I have of being embarrassed was when I was I was 7 years old.
I was by all measures a āchurch kid.ā Virtually all of the memories I have before middle school are set in a church or in a Christian school. I went to Sunday School as soon as my parents could leave me by myself and by junior year of high school, I had been managing and facilitating the youth group at a small Lutheran church in Johnston County, NC. My momās parents met at a church camp (and he proposed to her on the first date, but thatās a story for another day). My grandfatherās second career was as a Methodist minister. My dadās mom has sung in church choirs since just after WWII. The pews were my playground, and I knew every nook and cranny in every church I ever attended. Regardless of how I feel about churches now, back then, they were my fortress and refuge. I felt safe, loved, cared for, at home. And, like a good little Sunday School attendee, I wanted everyone to be a part of it. I received love, and I was charged to share it. My relationship with church goes much further and deeper, but for the purposes of sharing this story, my church was my happy childhood home.
I have never been great at dealing with change. Still not. But in my compulsive need to please every authority figure ever, I compartmentalize my negative feelings away and shift my focus to managing the change in the most responsible and enthusiastic way humanly possible.
My first pastor was Pastor Steve (I was too young to understand last names while I knew him, but Iām sure my parents would know if I asked), and he was the churchās only pastor. It wasnāt until I changed churches that I even knew churchās could have a main pastor, a youth pastor, a senior pastor, a vicar, etc all at one church, so for me, Pastor Steve was/had to be everything I needed in a Pastor. When I was that young, he didnāt need to be a lot though. Childrenās messages before sermons on Sunday mornings and helping with the Christmas pageant is all I really remember about him anymore. But I was also so young that I hadnāt yet learned that people can leave you forever. I knew that when someone left you, you should feel scared. When I was three, my dad was in a terrible accident (which is also a story for another day), but he eventually came back to me. I hadnāt yet lost anyone else, so I assumed when someone leaves, they eventually come back.
But Pastor Steve left. In many denominations, like in many other professions, clergy can move from job to job, and in some cases they have to. Iām sure that all of the adults understood that this is part of his job, and they probably all had a better grasp on the concept of āmoving onā (one I still struggle with). But his departure blindsided me. How could we possibly have church without Pastor Steve? Well, fret not, young Moose. Some faceless authority swoops in and delivers a brand new one as soon as the door closes behind the last one.
Donāt get me wrong. I understand that it is a good thing that my church only had a small amount of time without a leader at the helm. Iām sure it kept things orderly. But my feeble mind couldnāt fathom how I was supposed to mourn the loss of a significant figure in my life (I also had a sort of strange childhood crush on him, but thatās part of a much, much larger story about my confusing relationships with spiritual authority figures) and concurrently begin attending to the task of being responsible and enthusiastic about this change. Somewhere along the way, I bargained with myself about my best course of action. If I could simply be capable of anticipating and meeting every single need this new pastor had, maybe I could be so good, then he wouldnāt leave like the last one. Problem solved. If I could prevent anyone from leaving by being the most perfect and helpful person, I wouldnāt have to deal with grief or mourning ever again.
ALL of this to say, I had mad anxiety about meeting this dude for the first time.
The ladies at the church had organized a welcome party for this new pastor in the churchās basement fellowship hall. It mustāve been a Saturday afternoon, because I remember the clear rays of sunshine being dissolved into a hazy mist by the white gauzy, floor-length curtains, and how that light danced on the backs of metal folding chairs and gave an ethereal glow to the popcorn ceiling. He and his family walked through the swing doors into oblong fellowship hall and I donāt remember what else happens until Iām sitting with my parents, the new pastor and his family, including a daughter about a year older than me, and maybe a handful of other people. The conversation mustāve died down a little bit, and my stressed out self decided to break the silence. Now was my chance, I thought, I can make this girl my best friend and then Iāll have a big āinā with her dad. I made direct eye contact, and very matter-of-fact, very Iām-the-one-who-knows-stuff-around-here, very just-loud-enough-to-let-the-adults-know-that-Iām-helpful-AND-confident-about-it, said to his daughter:
āSo, here we have this really cool youth room, it has huge couches all over the place. I hang out there all the time. And we have all this Kool-Aid in the kitchen, and I know where they keep it. I can show you sometime if you want.ā #humblebrag
The girl snickered (Iām sure it was just a giggle that my sensitive brain coded as a snicker). She replied, āIāve been here before, I already know about the youth room and the Kool-Aid.ā
Instantly I blushed and cowered. Of course! Of course sheās been here before, you idiot. Her dad just talked about how much he enjoyed the tour last week. Oh man, now the adults think youāre not very helpful after all. I donāt remember if anyone else -actually- laughed at me, but I certainly remember feeling like they were at least doing it in their heads. And I remember feeling like I deserved to feel humiliated because I hadnāt known quite as much as I thought I did. Now everyone thinks Iām stupid. And clearly I am. Not smart enough. Not helpful enough.
Later in my childhood, a frequent icebreaker question for truth-or-dare was, āWhatās your most embarrassing memory?ā and this moment, and the piercing vacuum in my stomach, feeling momentarily unable to breathe, my cheeks hot with blood, is what always came to mind. But the thing is, itās not really that embarrassing. Like straight up, if that same interaction happened today, I would just laugh back and say āmy bad!ā I offered something, someone simply said they didnāt need that thing.
So, ok. Itās not embarrassing. But in my memory, this moment is dripping in shame.
Even today, for the life of me, I cannot figure out why this particular moment was such a trigger of shame for me, canonizing itself in my Childhood Memoriesā¢--greatest hits edition. But I do recognize that it is an early intersection of self image issues that are scattered in bits and pieces around the rest of my life. My relationships to and with male authority figures. My fear of not knowing everything. My battle with feeling inferior to everyone else. Second guessing my instinct. The question, āam I actually being helpful? Or am I trying to look like Iām helpful?ā My perceived inability to form meaningful and long-lasting relationships with anyone. My struggle with the role my faith and spirituality have overall in my life.
Everyoneās faces and names have faded from my memory now, I donāt even remember that first or last name of that new pastor or his daughter. I donāt really have a sense of what else was going on that day, I only remember fleeting images of the afternoon. But I remember that physical feeling of being -mortified- and -humilated- like it was yesterday. The breathlessness, the hot cheeks, that sharp pull in my belly. I canāt parse out why exactly THIS moment is the one that represents āEmbarrassmentā for me. But I hope this moment is earmarked for my growth, that I might be able to glean some important lesson from such an emotionally charged moment.
Itās either that, or I just have a really shitty āMost Embarrassing Memory.ā
If anyone is out there reading this, whatās your most embarrassing memory?