I don’t like to paint stuff that’s not a canvas but I’l do it if you pay me enough money. For this bowl, I revisited the concept from my original painting, “Free From Shoes, Expectations, and Toothpaste.”
In my first run as an artist – before everything fell apart and I took a 9-year hiatus from painting (and life) – I had a relatively easy time going from zero to sixty and making a living off my funny faces and scribbles.
But whether it’s ‘cause of the borderline personality disorder (or whatever else), even minor road bumps can leave me totally dejected.
It was April 2013 and I’d sold art at three events: the first successful; the next two not. It was the morning of my fourth and I was feeling very discouraged and like I shouldn’t even bother. I didn’t wanna get dressed, brush my teeth, and drive up to this thing only to feel totally rejected.
It was then that I had an epiphany. I don’t have to get dressed or make myself presentable. Wearing the shorts I slept in, I could just hop in the car and – yes – set my shit up at the market, but just spend the day painting. Who cares if I look like a grimy little shit and no one buys anything? I’ll still be spending the day doing something I love.
I decided to expect nothing – no sales, no positive attention – just nothing from anyone but myself. And I wouldn’t care how I looked or what people thought of me. I didn’t have to hide the parts of my body I was more self-conscious of by putting on a shirt or shoes. And I didn’t need to brush my teeth before I left. (I could just do that when I got home later). Not giving a shit about how I looked or whether or not I was gonna make any money felt awesome. It’s not an exaggeration to say that I felt FREE. Like this huge weight had been lifted from me.
When I ultimately did sell a ton of art that day, it was like a confirmation from the universe that I’d made the right choice – that this was the approach to take.
I’ve been going through my print inventory and pulling the stuff that doesn’t represent me as I’d like to be represented. A lot of those pieces still resonate with me; they just don’t look good. So I’m taking old concepts and putting them into new paintings and drawings.
That’s something I wouldn’t have done in the past. I thought that every piece of art was sort of a sacred artifact that should exist exactly as it did when I first made it. But reusing a concept doesn’t erase the old artwork. It just means it’s also a part of something new. I’ve always thought it was sort of hacky when artists reused concepts repeatedly but this isn’t that. It’s not that black and white. I can recycle an idea into something better and it doesn’t mean I’m some one-hit-wonder just playing the same song again and again. Upcycling a few old things that I love isn’t the same as churning out a thousand variations of my one “hit” piece.
Although – even if I was doing that: who gives a shit? As long as I’m doing what I wanna do – fuck everything else.
I’m glad I chose to upcycle the concept from “Free/Toothpaste” for this bowl I was commissioned to paint because it’s been a great reminder that I need to GET FREE. I need to not worry so much about all this shit and just make art. Whatever art I want. And it doesn’t matter if I reuse an old concept or it’s not THE GREATEST THING I’VE EVER MADE. So long as it looks cool, is real, and meaningful, that’s enough. (Especially for a small, commissioned, piece of art).
Following what happened to me in 2015, I’m having trouble fully subscribing to my (once) guiding principle – that “everything works out exactly as it should.” But I think everything works out – at least a lot better – when I do. When I just have faith that things will work out, so long as I’m doing my best.
Although that probably still includes brushing my teeth periodically.
And seeing as it’s December 12th, let’s go ahead and throw out a promo code for Christmas and Hanukkah. Use the promo code CH1320 to get 20% off any order, now through the end of Hanukkah (the last day of which is January 2nd). Cool? Coooooool.
“Sammy thrashLife Goes to Springfield.” 1/15/15. Acrylic and spray paints. 12×12″.
You’ve likely seen this before. I even made a video about it last month. But I’d never written out a statement to go along with the prints I sell so… HERE YOU GO:
I had no idea where to even start but “traditional advertising” was never gonna be part of my playbook. The first thing I did was to make stickers out of the drawing that I’d eventually use as my sorta default insignia. Apart from that, they said something about BPD, not being on heroin, and making art. I put them on payphones (because those were still a thing that just barely existed then), telephone poles, and anyplace else I figured they’d get noticed.
One of the first people to contact me after seeing one of those stickers was a local artist named Mike Kelly (later “Mikey twoHands”). I don’t think he was really trying to be a professional artist but he really loved making art and he’d occasionally try to sell stuff locally at DIY art fairs and swaps. He reached out to tell me he liked the sticker and – as we got to know each other – it turned out that he really loved my dedication to making art around the clock and spending any other time trying to market or sell it. We became really close and started hanging out all the time. And through him, I met a lot of other locals in the arts community.
For a regular job, he ran sound at a bar/small venue called Rain Dogs. So even when he had to go into work, I’d go with him and set up a display to sell my prints to whoever turned out to see whichever bands were playing that night.
Some of my best memories are of running around Jacksonville with Mike, making and selling art. It was the time period in which I really figured out how to successfully market myself as an artist on a daily basis and make a living. He was so inspired by my drive and I was in turn inspired by his excitement.
After a while, I became too ambitious for Jacksonville alone and decided to try to conquer as many cities as I could. I got myself a van and TOOK MY SHOW ON THE ROAD. But I’d still come back to Jacksonville every so often, whenever there’d be a big event at which I knew I could make money. The city’s (now defunct) One Spark festival still holds the record as my most profitable event ever for selling prints.
On one of those return trips to Jacksonville, Mike got the idea of wanting to make a painting in my style and pitched me on making one in his. I knew it wouldn’t fit in with my other work and wouldn’t really be something I could sell in a gallery, kinda wanted to only focus on art like that, but agreed ‘cause of FRIENDSHIP.
Mike’s art back then, like mine, pretty much followed a formula. He’d use spraypaint to make a backdrop, each piece would feature a cartoon character (sometimes one of his own creation but usually something taken from pop culture), and then there’d be a quote from the character or some other funny caption he came up with.
If I was gonna pull from pop culture, the only show that’d ever even occur to me is The Simpsons. I didn’t like the idea of directly copying someone else’s art though, so I decided to just paint myself in the style of The Simpsons’ animators. And then I’d need a quote to go with it.
As deeply as I’ve always related to Bart Simpson, the first quote that came to mind was from Moe the Bartender: “I’ve done stuff I ain’t proud of – and the stuff I am proud of is disgusting.” Not the most sincere or profound words to ever be found in my art, but funny. And this project was just for fun anyway. It made me smile, it make Mike happy – that’s good enough for me!
Admittedly, at the time, the quote was intended to be a reference to the outrageous sex stuff I’d often written about in my blog but a later event makes that topic less fun to get into these days. I hope, one day, I’ll be able to be my full authentic self again and not feel like I can’t write about everything in my life with honesty and humor. CROSS YOUR FINGERS FOR ME.
“…Springfield” is now available in the webstore. And if you’re reading this before November 30th, you can use the promo code LIVE to get 20% off your entire order.
I have a lot of artwork from ten plus years ago (when I first started making art) that I still love conceptually but just looks terrible. I never liked the idea of recycling ideas but so much of that early stuff is still so exciting and meaningful to me and I hate the idea of just letting it disappear. At the same time, I certainly don’t wanna promote or advertise anything that looks bad or doesn’t represent me well. That line of thinking’s led me to reconsider my previous stance and become okay – even passionate – about the idea of taking some of my old concepts and making new artwork with them. One of those is already in the works as a major painting (and you can get a look at that process over on my TikTok) while others will be coming soon.
Speaking of TikTok, if you’re not already following me on there, I’ve been making four to seven videos for it every week – and have even started livestreaming on occasion. I know a lot of people have issues with TikTok (I certainly did/do) but if you wanna keep up with my process, I think it’s worth checking out.
Anyway, the drawing in today’s blog isn’t reallya recycled idea because it’s more of an exact duplicate. There’s nothing wrong with the original “My Favorite Cartoon” but I want to make prints of it and don’t have a good photo or scan of the original from which to make them. All I’ve got is badly filtered, altered versions from Photoshop. Since I don’t wanna make prints from those, I simply redrew it.
“”Christian Love (The Grace of a Mountain Goat)” 10/22/24. Pigment and alcohol inks. 8½x11″.
I stumbled across Proverbs 5:19 on the internet today. From the New American Standard Bible:
Like a loving doe and a graceful mountain goat, let her breasts satisfy you at all times; be exhilarated always with her love.
Some of the other translations aren’t quite as ridiculous but where’s the fun in that? My first reaction was only (ASSUMING MY READING OF THIS IS CORRECT): the Bible is much hornier than I realized! (Or at least remembered). I haven’t bothered to read the passages surrounding this for additional context, but it would seem to be about nothing more than ENJOYING BREASTS. If that’s not jarring enough, the fact that a line is somehow drawn to that from the grace of (of all things) a MOUNTAIN GOAT. …I can’t be the only one that finds this absurd, curious, and remarkably amusing.
My first draft didn’t have a girl’s head and the boobs were just slapped on the side of the goat’s body but, I figured, if THE BIBLE is gonna get horny with it, I might as well too. It’s much creepier this way!
And speaking of horny and creepy, I initially wanted to title this “Christian Girls” but… that felt a little too horny even for me. Or rather, it felt too creepy for me at my age.
When I use the word “girls,” I’m talking about women approximately my own age. Maybe because I’m stuck in perpetual adolescence as a consequence of losing so many years to addiction, but the word “women” just feels strange to me. I feel awkward saying it. I’m not as uncomfortable with it as I am with the word “men,” which I really hate but – I’m at an age now where I’m gonna have to get used to it. Referring to my peers as “kids” worked a decade ago. Referring to my dates as “girls” worked a decade ago. But, today, someone might get the wrong idea, especially about “girls.”
Hey – what do you know? Seeing as all I’m presenting in this entry is a drawing that’s AS DUMB AS THEY GET, I was afraid I was gonna disappoint anyone who came here hoping for another overwrought story of mental illness and poor decisions but – CHECK ME OUT – I managed to get there all the same!
One last note (in case it doesn’t go without saying) “like, really cool tits” is not the way I talk (unless I’m trying to be funny). That’s me poking fun at the way God talks. (He wrote the Old Testament/Torah/Tawrat, right?)
“Let her breasts satisfy you at all times” – HILARIOUS!
Having said all of that, it’d be dishonest to not acknowledge that “there’s at least a grain of truth in every joke.” I mean, who wouldn’t go for a girl with the grace of a mountain goat and REALLY COOL TITS?
I’m only human. I’m just as God made me.
If you’d like to support me (even half as much as I’d like you to support me!) prints of “Christian Love (The Grace of a Mountain Goat)” are on sale now in the webstore. I mean, really you should probably buy one of my other prints but – hey – THE HEART WANTS WHAT IT WANTS and I won’t judge you. Thank you (as always) for your time and attention. Even for nonsense like this.
“Sorry For Overdosing in Your Bathroom” 3/8/19. Acrylic paint. 20×20″.
Wallis and I both wanted to get clean. To get myself through the worst of the withdrawals, I took a fair bit [okay, a SHIT TON] of Xanax to keep myself as close to unconscious as possible. The next morning I woke up and Wallis was gone. She’d decided to go for inpatient detox but I was too out of it for her to communicate that to me. Being the loving and thoughtful person that she is, she’d arranged for a friend of ours (Whitney) to be there when I finally came to, to explain everything to me. But when I first regained consciousness, I was so out of it that I thought Whitney was Wallis. For a while. It really had to be explained to me. Several times.
When Whitney did finally manage to get through to my drug-addled brain, I flipped out. I felt totally abandoned and upset and hopeless and – honestly, it doesn’t really matter. I was so fucked up on Xanax that I wasn’t myself anyway.
For those that don’t have experience overdosing on Xanax, it’s not the kind of drug that will kill you on its own. So you can take dozens of pills but – unless you introduce alcohol or another drug into the mix – you’re not going to die. At insanely high doses though, you will begin to behave like a RAGING lunatic. (Particular emphasis on “raging”).
What I did next is unlike anything I’d ever before done in my life. I took a knife and slashed through all of my paintings. And my biggest painting – the mammoth 12×8-foot piece hanging across the entirety of the living room wall – well, I set that one on fire. And then for good measure, I took our 50-inch TV and threw it through the closed living room window into the front yard. So Whitney now had glass and fire and a lunatic to contend with. Well, glass and fire; I jumped on my motorcycle and sped off.
Darting all over town in my drug-addled haze, it’s a miracle I didn’t crash that bike and lose a limb (or worse). I had a SHOPPING LIST to quietly, painlessly end my life. An overdose quantity of heroin should get the job done on its own; added to all the Xanax in my system would make it a sure thing. And just for good measure, I’d also chug as much alcohol as I could stomach (just before shooting up – and in the time before I lost consciousness). Having thrown all my syringes away in preparation for the detox/getting clean, I’d also need to find one of those.
Once I had all of my supplies, I needed someplace that I could actually do this. My house likely had a police presence following the fire and chaos. Or – at the very least – a Whitney. I needed somewhere that no one would try to stop me or find me soon enough afterward that my life could be saved. Where does that leave? You can’t go to a friends’ house. They’re not going to let you overdose and die. You can’t go really anyplace public; someone’s liable to see you and call 911.
Sun-Ray Cinema. Any other business, I’d be found, but Sun-Ray had a screening room with an entrance right by their front door. I could slip in without anyone even realizing I’d entered the building. And – in the back of that screening room – a bathroom that had only recently been renovated. This meant none of the customers even knew it was there. The only way anyone would find me in time is if an employee just happened to decide to use it in the short window that it would take me to do my shot and stop breathing. How many people were even on staff that day? Two? Three? And they’d almost certainly use the bathrooms in the main lobby or theater.
As recently as a few months prior, I’d considered Sun-Ray’s owner and proprietor one of my best friends. We’d had a falling out but – even still – I felt guilty pulling him, his wife/Sun-Ray partner, and their staff (some of whom I also considered friends) into my death. But it was the only viable option I could think of.
I got to the theater and snuck inside without issue. Once in the bathroom, I realized that my plan wasn’t quite as solid as I’d thought. The bathroom, of course, had a light. But unlike the lights in the main bathrooms, this one was kept off unless someone was using it. Even with the door shut, in the dark hall, it was clear when the light in the bathroom was on. Still, it was rare for anyone to come back there at all. It was in a hallway behind a curtain in the back of the screening room. The only other thing off the hall was a small office that only needed to be accessed briefly when a movie was set to begin. I hoped that the next showing was still a ways off or that – even if it weren’t – that no one would think anything of the bathroom light being left on.
I gulped down as much alcohol as I could stand. (Turns out it was a Sunday and the liquor stores were closed, so I’d had to settle for the highest ABV thing I could find: a bottle of wine). Even still, with the amount of Xanax in my system, I figured even wine should be enough to kill me. (Alcohol and Xanax are a surprisingly lethal combination). Next, I prepped my shot with enough heroin (actually, fentanyl) to kill god-knows-how-many regular people (and still ten times even my regular dose). I found a vein and pushed the plunger down the barrel. I picked the bottle back up and started chugging as the dope made its way through my bloodstream.
It was only a matter of seconds before I’d lose consciousness and it seemed no one had noticed the light being on yet. Certainly no one had knocked. I was set. Even if someone came along now, it was doubtful they’d act with any sense of urgency. By the time they realized the door was locked from the inside, found the key, and come back, I’d be dead.
It was three or four days later when I woke up in the hospital with no memory of what had happened after I’d injected in the Sun-Ray bathroom. (To this day, I don’t know). In any case, it must be that I didn’t write a suicide note, because there was no psychiatric hold on me. I was treated like just another accidental overdose patient. As soon as I was able to stand, they were processing my discharge. I made some phone calls from the hospital phone. Wallis, Whitney – and I think Tim and Shana at Sun-Ray. I don’t really remember. Within the hour though, I was back out on the street, borrowing a stranger’s phone, and calling my dealer.
Several small-print journals in the painting don’t strike me as terribly important or interesting at this point in time. In the bottom left though, it says: “Sometimes I bumout about being such a fuck-up, but – if I weren’t – I wouldn’t be able to make (authentic) rad shit like this painting.”
I’m not sure that that quite balances out but – I am who I am. My history is just that – it’s happened. Nothing will change what I’ve put myself, or anyone else, through.
Though in case it doesn’t go without saying – intentionally ridiculous title aside – I really am, genuinely, very SORRY FOR OVERDOSING IN YOUR BATHROOM. I imagine, at the time, it came across as an act of spite, but it really was merely an act of desperation. It had nothing to do with you; yours was just the place where I felt I had the best chance. And probably, in some twisted sense, where I felt safest. I’m sorry that I, very selfishly, let that outweigh what should have been my consideration for your welfare.
And the same goes to anyone else I’ve ever put in a similar position, only to then mine that traumafor humor or insight, for the sake of art. I work with a LIMITED PALETTE, trying to make the most of what I’ve got and spin it into something better.
It’s kind of all I know how to do.
I hope you (still) like it.
This painting was sold years ago but there are 12×12-inch prints on sale in the webstore while supplies last. Buy one and you’ll be funding my continued existence, artwork, and writing for at least two more days!
This painting was commissioned by a wonderfully supportive patron named Maura, as a tribute to her friend, Tommy, after his passing.
I knew Maura a little through emails but didn’t know Tommy at all. Honoring someone I didn’t know was a little intimidating. It felt like a big responsibility and I wanted to do a good job.
After looking over his social media, I was able to paint little allusions to his interests, but I knew the text was gonna have to carry most of the weight. I needed something that would pay tribute to Tommy and – hopefully – bring some comfort to Maura and anyone else Tommy left behind that would see my work.
A week or so in, I saw a feature column about suicides and empathy that triggered something. I started journaling about it in the silver quadrant of the painting, but it didn’t really go anywhere. If it weren’t for the bit where I name a few friends, cut myself off, and instead say “WHOEVER READS THIS AND WANTS ME TO BE SAD WHEN THEY DIE” – and the fact that that gave me a shitty little smile – I probably would’ve painted over it. I’d mildly succeeded in amusing myself but certainly wasn’t meeting the bar I’d set to honor Tommy. I took another shot at it in the green quadrant:
This painting was commissioned for Tommy, who’s not with us anymore. Maura told me about this poem he liked. Asked if I could incorporate it somehow. The last part was his favorite. “I was a dog on a short chain and now there’s no chain.” I (think) I get it. It’s about being free. Which I can appreciate. I mean, I am a STRAY DOG. (Even if I sometimes consider trading that freedom for the warmth of a home). Now - thinking of Tommy and the way his chain’s really been cut… Death is the ultimate freedom. It’s freedom from everything that fucks us up in life. AND it’s a home (of sorts) and…
That train of thought hit a wall. I was rambling again, lost, trying stumble into meaning.
What the fuck am I even talking about? I don’t know anything about anything. I wanna believe that Tommy and all the people we care about but aren’t here anymore - that they’re all free and okay and “singing loud” and safe and “warm” and… I don’t know. Maybe they are. Maybe it’s a nice thought at least.
Fuck it. You know what? (You know where my fucking name comes from?) “Thrash life! No death!” And I think that’s the same sentiment that Tommy appreciated in that poem. Forget all that shit that comes with “the ultimate chain” or the freedom that comes in death. Tommy wanted to break the chains here on earth and LIVE FREE. So that’s what we ought to do and that’s what I wanna focus on. I wanna RUN FREE, SPIT FIRE, YELL AT CLOUDS, sing dumb songs, and thrash life. This one’s for you, Tommy. I hope you’re out there, fucking shit up in the ether.
It’s been six years since I painted “Run Free” and wrote those passages. Looking back at it today as I finally write a statement to accompany the painting, I can’t help but think of my friend, Steph, who just died. I didn’t cry right when I found out she was gone, but I did cry when I woke up the next morning, thinking about how trapped and hopeless she must have felt. We’d not been in regular contact for a while but she was important enough to me that – had I known how close to the edge she was – I’d have told her, “If you don’t want to go back to Jacksonville – fuck it – come here. You can stay with me. Or just try something – anything – different from what you’re doing now.
Could I have fixed her? No. But we could’ve spent time together. We could’ve laughed. And maybe she’d have seen that things weren’t so bad outside of the shitty little world she’d constructed around herself back in New Orleans. Maybe she’d have found it in her to build something new.
Life is hard enough for anyone, but when you don’t believe in anything and you’re miserable, it’s pretty tough to justify not killing yourself via overdose (intentional or not) – or even arguing to a suicidal friend that they wouldn’t be better off dead. But life can also be pretty great every now and then. Being in love. Genuine, caught-off-guard laughter. Even just seeing something that reminds you of someone you care about. Mischief. PUNK ROCK. Setting a goal and meeting or exceeding it. Making something that’s meaningful to you and then OTHER PEOPLE TELLING YOU IT’S ALSO MEANINGFUL TO THEM. Shit – last night I posted my first TikTok video that actually seemed to get some attention from strangers who are now following me.
Some of these things (okay – mostly that last one) are pretty trivial. But they’re also ENERGIZING. They FEEL GOOD. Even with friends dying, and some girl breaking my stupid fucking heart, and feeling lonely (and like a 38 year-old fuck-up who’s starting from scratch again, barely able to support himself, AND (so far) NOT SELLING ANYWHERE NEAR AS MANY PRINTS FROM MY FRESHLY LAUNCHED WEBSTORE AS I’D HOPED).
If we don’t know what the alternative is – and if it may well be simply ceasing to exist, why not try to make the most of the time we do have? What do we have to lose?
And what can we do to honor the people we’ve lost?
Not much. But we can live in ways that would make them smile if they could only see us. And maybe they can. (Probably they can’t). But LET’S JUST SAY THEY CAN and do it anyway. If nothing else, it’ll make it easier for us to keep going. And we might as well. Those little moments and good feelings are worth living for.
Being a commission, this painting is already sold, but 16×12-inch prints are available (and BEAUTIFUL) in my new webstore. And if you’d like to commission your very own original painting, I would (of course) love to hear from you.
Your support (sharing/reposting, buying, whatever) means everything to me. Thanks for reading.
“She’s Cut with Xylazine” 9/29/2024. Acrylic paint. 24×20″
My next painting was “pre-purchased” before it was started. The only request was “could it please be one of the journal heavy paintings?” That was a bit of a problem. My journals from August are so boring. I was really happy and complacent. They are not interesting. Really just a collection of “here’s what I did today” entries. Because “she” and I were spending every day together. She’d signed a lease on a studio apartment just one block from mine. I’d held to the idea that we shouldn’t move in together right away. That we should take it a little more slowly and cautiously. But we were having such a great time together. Even when my grandpa was in the hospital, she came with me every single day and was so good and kind and supportive. Two days before she was set to move in, I asked, “how often are we gonna do overnights together?” “Every night,” she said. I still thought it was important that we have our own apartments, but why wouldn’t I want to go to sleep every night and wake up every morning next to her? That she wanted the same made me very happy.
She’d always been the partner in the relationship who loved more. She was more in love with me than I with her. But she was so insecure when we met that she never really let me fall all the way in love with her. And then I was on drugs. Our relationship dynamic was a natural consequence of those two things. But now, totally clean, I was excited to be equally in love with her and not take her for granted at all. It made me very happy to show someone that kind of love.
The day before her move she said she was scared. I’ll cut to the chase. She didn’t move. And then she changed her mind. And then she changed her mind about changing her mind. And that cycle went on until the apartment was gone and she’d burned through all the money that’d been set aside for her move. She was stuck and I was tired of being dicked around. I blocked her number. (This is the very short version. What she actually put me through after the first failure-to-move was both agonizing and agonizingly drawn out).
My painting would get PLENTY of journals now.
I know it makes me sound like a FUCKING PSYCHOPATH but it makes me ANGRY that we’re not together.
SO MANY lost experiences that should have been shared. [Every time I see something that makes me smile, I want her to be there with me – or I at least want to tell her about it. I want those to be her smiles too. But she’s out of the picture now. We don’t share anything].
A friend of mine died this week.
Her circumstances were remarkably similar to this person I’m writing about. Trapped in a bad situation. Paralyzed by fear. Using substances incredibly recklessly to cope. When she could have just walked away. But she didn’t want to admit defeat. She’d tried a new kind of relationship – if she broke up and moved out, it would be another failure. (SO WORRIED about how other people see us, ready to literally die first; talk about tragic and pointless).
I was talking to another friend after we learned of the death. She was having a hard time but said it was made easier by the fact that people in her life depend on her. “Gotta keep going for them. Simple as that.” It reminded me very much of where this next journal (written a couple weeks ago) goes.
I’m not trying to be all melo-fucking-dramatic but what’s the point? What good reason is there to not kill myself? [It’s so hard to even get my thoughts in the right order].
I know she loves me and yet we’re not together. I know I make her happy in a way no one else ever has or maybe ever could. And she makes me happy.
The thought of even trying to find someone else seems so fucking stupid. How could I ever love anyone else as much as I love her?
She will come back to me eventually but can I even take her back then? If I let her take me for granted, she will take me for granted. And it won’t
work out. She’ll never be happy in a relationship where she feels like she has all the power, or where her actions don’t have consequences. Is she too broken for it to even work out anyway?
I’m not sure there’s anything in the world that I love doing enough purely for its own sake that it’s enough to make me happy without her. Making art makes me happy but not enough that…
FUCK! I’m so lost.
If I’m with her, I have the drive to be more successful. If I’m not with her, I need the drive to be more successful or else I’ll never be happy.
If I have her, I’m willing to do what I need to do to make money off my art more aggressively. Because then it’s for something. But if it’s me alone, who cares about making any more than I need to live?
It hurts to love someone so much and not be able to have them. I made it too easy for her. Maybe disconnecting is what I needed to do to get through to her. That feels like a “game” but maybe that’s what it takes with her.
What I need to do is just be patient, let whatever happens happen, not stress about her or about not being in a relationship, and just do my best whether it’s for her, someone I don’t know yet, or [duh] myself. It’s just so hard to be totally self-motivated AND – let’s face it – I’m just always starved for love, attention, and validation.
The next section of text in the painting is the “untitled prose poem” that I shared last month. It’s heavy on the kind of SALACIOUS stuff that generates clicks. It’s also really honest because it wasn’t written with a mind of it ever having an audience. It was maybe a letter that I was going to send, maybe just for myself. Click this link and it’ll open in a new window. Then you can come back here.
My dreamgirl versus THE LIE SPIDER…
“My dreamgirl” is a phrase I used in a letter I wrote to her. I’m not going to share it here (because it was private and) because I don’t want to romanticize this relationship right now. And – at the risk of TOOTING MY OWN HORN – the letter is VERY romantic) “I read it everyday,” she once told me.
BUT… (next journal from the painting):
Maybe I’m not in love with you. Maybe I’m just in love with the idealized version I have of you in my head. Maybe I shouldn’t have to make so many excuses for you. Maybe the fact that all of this is so “complicated” and requires so many explanations to make sense – maybe that tells me everything I need to know. Maybe I should believe you when you show me who you are. Maybe actions speak louder than words. I like to pride myself on my ability to see through your lies and get the truth out of you, but maybe I’m still not getting the whole truth. Maybe you’re just as dishonest with me as you are with him and I’m a bigger sucker than I realize. I don’t really think that’s true but it’s probably more true than I want to believe. You didn’t earn your nickname for nothing. You are the LIE SPIDER.
And she really is. The nickname goes way back. It wasn’t even really derogatory, just matter-of-fact. Because she will lie about anything. She will lie when the truth is fine. And then she has to tell another lie to cover the first lie. And then another. And eventually there’s a whole complicated web of lies to keep track of. “You are a lie SPIDER,” I’d once told her in a moment of (good-natured but nevertheless) exasperation. The name stuck because it would earn its relevance again and again with every new web of lies.
I was thinking about how much clean time I have now,
how little I’m tempted by drugs (not at all), and how this situation with her (everything before, plus now having her blocked from contacting me) was so much like a withdrawal. And how I was having such a hard time with it. How “relapse” was so tempting to me. I could easily have her back in the same way I’d had her before. She still wanted me. She just wasn’t willing to do what I needed her to do for her own sake – for her own well-being and happiness. But if I was okay with a sick girl, that was still on the table. But I don’t want a sick girl. I want a healthy, happy life with a healthy, happy partner. I started to journal about it when I hit on something.
She’s the drug I can’t stay away from.
I need to think of her like I’d think of heroin. I can’t afford to relapse. Just one time runs the risk of pulling me back in and starting the cycle all over again.
It’s easier staying clean now that heroin doesn’t exist anymore and all the fentanyl is cut with xylazine. Shooting up isn’t comforting in the way it used to be. It’s not the easy, stressless escape that she still is. I still love the way she makes me feel. Ooooo – shit. But that’s the thing. I love the way she used to make me feel – or could make me feel IN THEORY. But the reality of the situation is that she’s so broken right now that she just makes a mess of everything and leaves me feeling worse. Just like the drugs would. It’s like SHE’S CUT WITH XYLAZINE. She’s THE GIRL CUT WITH XYLAZINE. She’s necrotic.
God damn – that’s a PERFECT metaphor. “Until they get the xylazine out” (of her), she’s too overloaded with poison to serve any purpose. She should be avoided at all costs. No good can come from her.
[Very quickly, xylazine is an inexpensive veterinary tranquilizer mixed (or cut) into opiates to increase volume and, consequently, profit. It doesn’t provide a euphoric high; it simply knocks the user out. The real issue though is that it rots the skin off your fucking body. Xylazine has completely infected America’s illicit opiate supply].
That really crystallized it for me.
For the next week, I was able to focus entirely on my work, get a ton done, and just generally be in a better mood. The drugs I was addicted to don’t exist in the same way anymore. And the girl I was in love with doesn’t exist in the same way anymore.
That said, I’m not gonna pretend that I’ve totally gotten her off my mind (in the way I have with drugs) or that I don’t still secretly hope that something will change and she’ll become “xylazine-free,” but – at least until that happens – it’s made it much easier to not be consumed by her or to get pulled back in to her shitty cycles of destruction.
Part of me still feels like I need to be there for her. I really do worry that she may die. But I did everything I could to try to help her. And she wasted my efforts and thenI did it again. And again. And again. If something happens, I’ll be fucking furious (and devastated) but not at myself. For me to continue trying right now would be insane. She’s got to want to get better herself. She’s got to take at least one step on her own. And I’m not saying what would or wouldn’t happen at that point or what I would or wouldn’t do, but that doesn’t matter anyway. I. can’t waste my energy trying to predict or plan for something that’s totally out of my control (and may never happen). I can’t help someone who refuses to be helped. It’s not selfish to worry about, to prioritize me. To take care of me. (SOMEONE HAS TO). And the other people in my life that I care about. I’ve got enough on my plate without taking on XYLAZINE PROBLEMS.
all images on the site are fairly low-res but click/tap for a larger image with somewhat clearer details. for a truly high-resolution image, BUY THE PRINT 😜
Hey! I finally set up a webstore to sell prints! You can buy your very own 14×11-inch “She’s Cut with Xylazine” print today! Not only will you get a beautiful, provocative piece of art for your home, but I’ll get to continue sleeping indoors!
Thanks so much to everyone who supports my work. Whether you buy, share on social media, drop a comment, or even just take the time to read this stuff, I can’t express how much it means to me. I couldn’t do this in a vacuum. You all are what keep me going.
And speaking of “keep me going,” I now have FIVE MONTHS CLEAN off any/everything again! Time flies when you’re an emotional basket case!
![Apparently Proverbs 5:19 says: “Like a loving doe and a graceful mountain goat, Let her breasts satisfy you at all times; Be exhilarated always with her love.”
So… Christianity is fucking weird, you guys.
Then again, I sure could go for a nice girl with ]THE GRACE OF A MOUNTAIN GOAT and, like, really cool tits.
Anyone know how I’d go about getting baptized?](https://i0.wp.com/sammythrashlife.com/wp-content/uploads/Grace-of-a-Mountain-Goat.jpg?resize=730%2C995&ssl=1)
![Apparently Proverbs 5:19 says: “Like a loving doe and a graceful mountain goat, Let her breasts satisfy you at all times; Be exhilarated always with her love.” So… Christianity is fucking weird, you guys. Then again, I sure could go for a nice girl with ]THE GRACE OF A MOUNTAIN GOAT and, like, really cool tits. Anyone know how I’d go about getting baptized?](https://i0.wp.com/sammythrashlife.com/wp-content/uploads/Grace-of-a-Mountain-Goat.webp?resize=300%2C300&ssl=1)
