The main body of text says: Okay – so I’m makin’ this in the car so it’s gonna be sloppy. I forgot to get you a California souvenir but that’s okay ’cause I figured it’d be cute/funny to just pick something up on the ride back. It’s a keychain. I think it says “Kansas City Wildcats” but I forget and I might have lost it already, even though I just bought it five minutes ago. BUT (since I like you) I figured I owe you one better than that. And I don’t ever make free art for ANYONE anymore so I thought it’d be real sweet of me to do that. It’s fucked up but I already had the thought that – the next time I make a gesture like this (presumably for some other girl) it’s not gonna mean as much. [That’s the kind of thing you’re not supposed to say in a “love letter” / piece of art dedicated/for the girl you like]. That’s okay. That’s me. Maybe I’ll leave Chicago next week, maybe never. Maybe you won’t like me anymore tomorrow and it won’t even matter where I am in relation to you. Also, you’re twenty so whatever (“forever“). Here are some funny faces. They are SYMBOLIC of the crush I have on you.
After that, there are a couple smaller bits of text. First: This is more honest and less cool than it should be, so you don’t like me too much. But if that’s my intention, why am I making it at all? OOOOOHHHH – I’m so complex!
Second: Between this and the love song Chris and Mike are listening to on the radio, I’ve decided that the whole enterprise of love letters is bullshit. It’s all ego and vanity. Or maybe this song just sucks and I’m self-absorbed. I don’t know but your smile makes me really happy sometimes.
So there you have it. A Sammy thrashLife love letter. More about me than it is about the object of my affection but just charming enough to sort of perform its function. Equal parts “fall in love with me” and “don’t get too invested.” One thing’s certain: it’s definitely a thing that exists.
“I Fall in Love Every Week But This Week I Fell in Love With You.” 3/9/14 – 6/4/14. Mixed media. 11×14″.
I started this piece the night after I met a girl in Jacksonville. She was just visiting, from Tampa, but we went out once before she went back home. Over the next few weeks, we texted a whole lot and made plans to spend a night together the next time I was around Tampa. She may or may not have sort of had a boyfriend that she lived with. About a month after we had met, I was on my way to Sarasota for the premiere screening of No Real Than You Are. I invited her to go with me. She didn’t respond. I tried to call but she didn’t answer. I don’t know if I did something wrong or if the reality of my actually coming around didn’t quite mesh with her boyfriend situation, but I never heard from her again. That hurt my feelings, especially since it coincided with similar developments in my “relationships” with three other girls (all in the span of a couple days)! This particular rejection was the only one I didn’t acknowledge at the time ’cause it felt the worst and struck me as being the most petty / trivial. On the one hand, it was really casual and I obviously wasn’t taking it too seriously. On the other hand, I really liked her! I did my best to not let it get to me but it made the next rejection hurt that much more.
Luckily, I fell in love with another girl a few days later and everything was okay again.
—-
Some less interesting details: I worked at this piece on and off for three months because I just couldn’t seem to get it to look like anything I could be happy with. Somewhere in there, I glued some cardboard and a piece of a reflective sun visor to it, even though I sort of hate collage / mixed media stuff; I just felt like I needed something to sort of shake it up a little bit. It’s also on a small canvas board (11×14″) – way smaller than anything I’ve got any interest in painting these days, but the board was given to me on a night when I didn’t have a fresh canvas with me and I figured I’d roll with it. I’m pretty sure I spent at least forty hours on this tiny little thing – every bit as much time as I spend on my
huge canvas paintings. I got the idea for the pattern in the lower-left (“mummy”) figure after painting the white slip-on shoes I bought at Walmart for ten dollars.
“What I Do When I’m Not on Tinder.” 6/21/14. Ink. 11×14″.
Check me out! I’m being an angry crybaby ’cause I heard second-hand that someone (that I don’t even know!) implied that I can’t really be trusted because I’m a drug addict.
You know how long it’s been since I injected drugs? You know how long it’s been since my compulsion to inject drugs inspired me to do something dishonest? Not to mention: I’m itinerant as fuck! Nobody knows me. I’m in a new city every day. I can be whoever I want each time I roll into a new city. The only reason anyone I encounter these days knows that I am/was a drug addict is ’cause I fuckin’ tell them. I wear everything on my sleeve ’cause I’m okay with who I am. I’m fuckin’ proud of who I am. Good and bad.
So fuck off with that shit.
What’s this have to do with my new piece, “What I Do When I’m Not on Tinder?” Very little! I’m just trying to kill two birds with one stone by venting and simultaneously writing a statement for a new piece. But if I wanted to contrive a connection, here it is: Even my Tinder profile introduces me to “potential matches” with an opening salvo of, “I don’t shoot heroin anymore but I still have a personality disorder. It’s nothing you’d notice most of the time.”
“What’s Tinder?” you ask. Well, you poor unfortunate soul, it’s a dating app for smartphones that matches people based on geographic proximity (“[this user] is two miles away”) and whether or not you swiped left (“nope”) or right (“like”) on their profile – which is comprised of no more than six photos and 500 characters of text. It’s superficial, shallow, and lots of fun! Once two people have swiped right on each others’ profiles, the lines of communication are open for messaging and (potentially) making plans to meet in real life. And now that Tinder’s introduced their newest feature (the hilariously-named “Tinder Moments,” a Snapchat-like feature which allows you to upload an additional photo, revealed only to your “matches” for 24 hours (who are then prompted to “like” or dismiss it by way of swipe)) it’s also become one more social-networking-avenue for a sad little boy like me to collect the validation-via-clicks for which I’m so desperate.
My mood right now is definitely corrupting my usually joyful description of Tinder. It’s shallow, superficial, and a lot of fun. It’s super speed dating. Say the wrong thing to some girl? Who cares! Just scroll down to your next match and start again! It’s totally meaningless (just like everything else in the known universe)!
I finished this drawing three weeks ago but have held off on sharing it on my website, Instagram, and Facebook until now because I only just got a proper high-res photograph of it. There was one venue through which I shared it immediately upon completion though – and it proved to be my most popular TINDER MOMENT to date!
I’m ridiculous. (And pretty okay with it).
Full disclosure: As revealed in the statement accompanying my commissioned “Bleed Blue Tatoo” piece, I’ve “started getting laid again,” am getting all the female attention I need, and have consequently been inactive on Tinder for a week or so. I’m also taking bets on how long ‘til I fall apart again and rediscover its utility. Hit me up for the current odds! Who knows? Maybe this very entry will be the spark that burns it all to the ground!
“Adventures Per Minute.” 5/5/14. Acrylic paint, spray paint, and ink. 36×48″.
“Adventures Per Minute” is how I felt in early April. From the moment I woke up until I crawled into bed each night, I was busy. Traveling back and forth between Jacksonville, Delray, and Sarasota; givinginterviews and being photographed; attending the premiere of the movie I starred in; directing a music video; setting up exhibits; making and distributing fliers and meeting people; selling prints at One Spark and Spring Fest; fucking; designing albumcovers and merchandise for some of my favorite bands; making more money than I’ve ever made in my life; and (of course) painting – at parks, at friends’ houses, on the streets, at punk shows, on rooftops, and at galleries.
It was just outside one of those galleries that I started this painting. Passers-by would stop, compliment my work, and ask how I was doing. That sparked the first small caption: “HOW AM I? I’m standing on a stool, paintin’ funny faces outside the gallery that sells my paintings for all the moneys. So – yeah – I’m okay.”
At the other end of the canvas, I elaborated: “I have everything.” And I really do. I’m not super rich just yet but all of my needs are met and then some.
I went back to Sarasota with the intention of trading in my van for a bigger one; it was my last stop before I finally took my show on the road outside of Florida. I changed my mind about the van but had quite a time back in that city where I (sort of) grew up. Things were messy – not only with friends in Sarasota but in my “adoptive” family’s house up the road in Bradenton. Drugs, lying, screaming, stealing… it was all around me and it was starting to fuck with my head. I don’t often feel “triggered” and – for the most part – think it’s sort of a bullshit concept. One afternoon in particular became an exception. I was on the back porch painting when the weather started acting up but there was no way I was walking back into the house. I took to the top corner of my canvas and started journaling:
It’s been ten days [since I last wrote on this painting]. I’m on the porch in Bradenton. There’s a tornado warning. I don’t care. That’d be cooler if I actually thought it might hit. I would totally shoot up right now if I had drugs in front of me. [and] I HAVE THE MONEY THESE DAYS.
My best friend (the one that used to shoot heroin) – he started shooting heroin again. And smoking [and shooting] crack. I had him Marchman Acted soon as I got back to Sarasota. Everyone’s pretty happy about that – and I’ve been buying into it too. But let’s get real. Nothing has changed. This is just getting started. And it’s gonna get a lot worse. I kind of think he’s gonna die soon. What should I do? Drag him around the country with me? That’s a lot of responsibility. And what would he do all day everyday?
And I love Abby too but her situation is even tougher, more hopeless.
I was talking to Heather about some of this and she asked me if I’ll “ever get to live for myself.” But I’m more independent, disconnected, and uninvolved than anyone. I “do me” constantly. But I grew up a fuck-up with other fuck-ups and what little I’m able to do these days when this shit goes on – I need to. Sometimes I’m the only one that can. I can’t live without people anyway. It’s all part of the package.
And I haven’t even gotten into the other shit that’s eating me right now… My phone is ringing. What kinds of decisions am I gonna make today?
I feel safer in this house with drugs, screaming, CPS, threats, lies, theft, etc. than at Morgan’s (’cause she’s got roommates) and this [house] is the only place I don’t feel like an intruder.
I paused and thought about all the good things that had happened lately – and the specifics of some of the bad… I brought the pen back to the canvas.
Life is sad and tragic and funny and beautiful. I’m usually having a pretty good time. I laugh and smile a lot. I don’t want the people I care about to die. Or to live without knowing happiness.
Up to this point, I hadn’t given any thought to what I was writing or how it might be received. I just let it come out, even when it occurred to me that I might need or want to remove Abby’s name at some point. But after I finished that long journal down the left side of the canvas, I remembered that I was creating art and that I had intended for this to be a joyful painting – a celebration of the wonderful, exciting things happening in my life. “I need to balance out all this dark with some the light I experienced leading up to this.” But (in my soul, not my brain) I really only felt compelled to write the darker (more recent) stories. I decided to phrase everything in the present tense.
I am standing in an alley while my friend smokes the last of her crack before I take her to the police station, from which she’ll be transported to detox, under court order. I picked her up in an empty parking lot.
I am dropping my “sister” off (with everything she owns) at a drug dealer’s house. An hour ago, she attempted to transfer custody of her daughter to me. I still live in / operate primarily out of A VAN. We hugged and I told her to not be a fuck-up.
I am back on Adderall [after a month without] and I think the dose is too high now and I’m too in my head and having thoughts like these: [An arrow points at the long, sad, I-wanna-shoot-heroin / my-friends-are-dying journal].
I needed my positive adventures to balance the painting and convey what “adventures per minute” had meant to me initially. But I had already told those nice stories on my blog. Repeating them here felt contrived. I did it anyway but in just four short sentences – covering One Spark, the music video, the film festival, and painting on rooftops. A few days later though, I had another adventure. But one that I didn’t want to be the first thing to pop out at someone. I hid it against a dark blue backdrop. It says: “I just PRETEND (consensually) ‘raped’ a girl that identifies as ‘gay.’ It was pretty awesome. I like her.”
So THAT sort of raises some questions and probably warrants a whole exposition of its own but this statement’s already long enough, I’m writing this in Atlanta, and – you know – I got some more adventures I really ought to be getting up to right about now so…
“Nothing’s Good Enough Because I’m Not.” 4/7/14. Acrylic paint, ink, and modeling paste. 48×36″.
I went quite a while without any emotional freakouts or serious anxiety when I suddenly found myself on a mental illness hot streak. At the root of it all (of course): girls. It’s nothing anyone does to me; it’s the way I interact and get involved and then am unable to handle the reality of the relationships I’ve built. These days, I’m lucky to have a way out of these messes I make that’s a lot more effective than shooting heroin or throwing temper tantrums. The journal I wrote in this painting lays it all out:
The highs this week have been absurd. Three nights ago, I exclaimed, "I'm on drugs!" I felt too good for it to not be some kind of chemical magic. But the next night, I cried out twice; first: "I hate my life!" Then: "I am the worst person in the world!" I felt so bad about myself. Seeing the state this girl was in. "It was wrong for me to trick her into falling in love with me," I thought. But I was in love with her at the time. Or so I thought at least.
The night before, I tried to have sex with this other girl that's gotten to know me pretty well pretty fast. She knows about all the other girls and is pretty enamored with me but is really caught up in not wanting to be "just another" of my "conquests" (as she put it). We got naked but then she wouldn't let me lead 'cause she didn't wanna feel used. But she wasn't taking the lead either. "I DON'T KNOW HOW TO FUCK YOU" was all I could think. It ended uncomfortably. I wasn't pleased with myself. We're supposed to give it another shot when I'm back in her city. But that sort of says it all right there. 'Cause I don't live anywhere, I'm not gonna date anyone anyway, and she likes me way too much for this little casual thing to end well.
Yesterday, I TOOK THE NIGHT OFF.
Tonight, I'm at a friend's house alone 'cause a couple hours ago I left the girl who I THOUGHT I had the best thing going with. I like spending time with her. But she was visibly bothered by my cigarette smoke today. And after I brushed my teeth and tried to kiss her, she still turned her cheek. I tried to play it cool but I'M NOT COOL. An hour later, I packed it in and left with minimal words. Feeling self-conscious, rejected, vulnerable, angry, hurt, and responsible. These girls all read my blog now. They know explicit details of what I'm up to. I can't NOT acknowledge it. I made a couple jokes… Is that what did it? I don't know. But all my finding-validation-through-girls shit is seriously backfiring on me this week.
After I left, I got pizza and listened to punk rock. Suddenly, my suicidal depression was over and everything was okay. "Pizza and punk rock" doesn't strike the ear as especially poetic and it makes me sound like a pretty trivial, simple-minded dweeb.
IS WHAT IT IS!
After I painted my "nothing's good enough" caption, everything was way better than okay. I was in love with myself and my silly doodle art again. And that's my god damn story.
I felt better (temporarily) but I didn’t really learn anything. Within a day, I was back to trying to get my self-esteem from girls, love, sex, etc. It was harder now though. This whole episode had fucked with my head a little bit and the next week – after leaving another girl’s house (not any of the three involved in the above-described antics) – I worried that I had forgotten how to sleep with a girl (even when the girl clearly wanted to sleep with me). I had become too self-conscious and insecure to make any kind of a move. Well that was it… I guess I’m never going to get laid again! (I thought). But then she sent me a text – she wanted me to come back. Which really only meant one thing at that hour. So I did. And all was well in the world.
And when I say that, I’m joking – but when I pause… it’s not really a joke. I absolutely felt validated by sleeping with that girl that night. In a very real, very significant way. Had it not played out like that, I would have sunk even deeper into insecurity and shame. Instead, I was pulled completely out of it and actually regained the confidence that I always seem to have (even when I don’t). A few days later, I met up with another girl who had bought some of my art at One Spark. We went on a “date” (kind of) and she invited me to stay the night. But she didn’t want to sleep with me. My freshly bolstered self-worth was high enough though that I was able to accept that rejection (with a smile even)! I don’t need for EVERYONE to want to fuck me all the time.
Sometimes!
“Wait For It … Wait For It!!” (the song I was listening to when I started to feel better) by Dead to Me.
This painting sold in April 2014. 12×16″ prints are still available.
“How to Bed a Girl When Your Bed is in a Minivan.” 3/20/14. Acrylic paint, spray paint, and ink. 60×40″.
Last summer, when I added my painting, “Hard Feelings,” to my website, I remember thinking, “For all the space that sex takes up in my head, it doesn’t seem to come up in my artwork very often.” That’s because (like EVERYONE) I have a hard time talking about sex without certain reservations.
But I write about everything! I’m an open fucking book!Right?!? People always tell me how they admire the honesty and vulnerability of my art and writing. But if I was so honest and vulnerable, why was one of my biggest preoccupations almost totally absent from my art? Why was I so hesitant to talk about sex – directly and bluntly?
(‘Cause it’s not fucking easy!)
I resolved to push myself to do it anyway. After all, each of these paintings is a reflection of what’s going on in my head as I’m making them. If they’re silent on sex, that means I’m holding back and not being the artist I wanna be.
In late January, I broke up with my girlfriend and gave up my house to live on the road, traveling between cities, meeting with galleries, and pursuing art 100% full-time. BEST DECISION EVER. Right from the start, I was getting back everything I was putting in and then some. In February, my biggest painting yet went up in Ettra, a gallery in Delray Beach. When I got word that it had sold in March, I drove right back down to drop off my two newest paintings and to (while there) paint a third that I’d also leave behind. It’s called “How to Bed a Girl When Your Bed is in a Minivan” and – like any piece that I put more than forty hours into – it’s got a few things going on…
First and foremost, it’s a celebration of my excitement – of my life in general, of how well things had been going. The text at the top right of the canvas:
I’m on a public street, darting around my canvas (practically dancing with it), sometimes singing along to the weird punk rock spewing outta my little speaker. (I’m sure I look insane). But I’m getting away with it. None of it matters. Because “I’M A FUCKING ARTIST, GUYS.” I’m quoting myself – AND GETTING AWAY WITH IT! (Because I’m an artist). I can use pick up lines like, “Hey, girl – play your cards right and you could be fuckin’ in my minivan.”
I GET AWAY WITH ALL THIS AND MORE!!
‘Cause art.
And my BEAUTIFUL SOUL.
Though it would be cool to have running water too…
Keep reachin’ for that dream, Sam!
The glee in those statements is also sort of what this painting’s title and center caption are about… How do you bed a girl when your bed’s in a minivan??? YOU PAINT BIG FUCKING PAINTINGS THAT LOOK REALLY COOL, SELL FOR A LOT OF MONEY, AND SHOWCASE YOUR WIT, CHARM, AND COMPLEXITY – BOTH AS A HUMAN BEING AND AN ARTIST.
Or (as the aforementioned center caption reads):
I’m not sure if you noticed but I’m SUPER talented… And such a FASCINATING fucking character… Pull up a chair and I’ll talk AT you about how god damn special I am!
That’s meant to be funny but it is word-for-word almost exactly something I said to a girl just a few weeks prior. And something I was continuing to say to other girls. Successfully! Which – in addition to everything happening with my art – was genuinely exciting. I had this new confident attitude / approach that (ridiculous as it may be) was totally justified. I don’t care if this comes across as arrogant ’cause it’s taken me twenty-eight years to feel this way; I am talented and I am a fascinating character (oh -and yeah – I fucking talk about myself a lot). Now, if I were the only person saying those things, well… that’d be one thing. But I’m not. I hear that stuff from other people every day.
SO – if that’s the case then why do I need to say it at all? Well, ’cause – Look! Over there! It’s a girl I want to have sex with!TONIGHT! …And since I’m not SUPER FAMOUS just yet – well – how’s she gonna know unless I tell her??
Which is where this painting takes a little bit of a sad turn (and where the whole “I’m afraid to talk about sex” thing comes full circle). If I really believe in myself, then why am I still trying to find validation through sex, other kinds of attention from girls, and (sometimes) even love? And I’m (apparently) so preoccupied with those thoughts that one of my two biggest pieces now is (essentially) an announcement to the world that (while I may live out of a van) “I GET LAID ALL THE TIME!” When I stop to consider how prominent sexual content’s been in almost all of my art these lastthreemonths, I can’t help but ask myself if I’m really still just pushing myself to be honest or if there is some component of “bragging” to this. Am I basing a (potentially) large piece of my self-worth on how many girls I can sleep with (and how many people know about it)?
I think it’s both. My art is about my life and sex is part of that. Especially now: this is the first time I’ve ever been committed to not having a girlfriend. Since I was seventeen, I’ve gone from one relationship to the next. Maybe it’s fair to say that I’m just taking advantage of and enjoying the freedom that comes with my itinerancy right now.
There are two separate blocks of text near the top of the canvas that, I feel, well-represent that dichotomy. While both are honest, I think their presence in this painting is consequent of two very different motives. The first says:
I slapped her in the face. Not hard. Playfully. Her eyes lit up. “I’ll hit you back,” she said. I smiled. “I’d like to see you try.”
I hit her again and pinned her arms down. Thrust into her harder and deeper. She winced in pain. “Oh – you know what I like to hear!” I said. She looked at me, bright-eyed again, and told me I was a piece of shit. “Yes! Exactly like that! Keep going!”
I HAVE FUN.
Why’s that in my painting? Well ’cause it had just happened, it was on my mind, and I was pretty pleased with myself. But, more to the point, I can also see and acknowledge that I intended it as bait – for girls that would read something like that and get turned on. And, in that sense, it feels a little less genuine.
The text just to the left of it (I think) ought to count for a little redemption. Not only is it sincere but it made me feel so vulnerable that I initially wrote it in black ink on top of black paint. I didn’t want anyone to be able to read it. It was only later that I got the courage to rewrite it in an area where it’d actually be legible. It says:
SOMETIMES I don’t want sex to be all that rough but I talk such a depraved, fucked up game that I feel like I’m always under pressure to live up to it.
There’s a lot more going on (and even a lot more text) scattered across the canvas, but I think this stuff gets at the crux of the piece, so I’ll leave the rest to be sought out and interpreted without me.
October 2024 update: I’m going through a lot of these older posts to add links to the new webstore and (though I didn’t read this entry just now) I skimmed just enough of it to feel like – as with “Adventures Per Minute” – it could probably benefit from the same additional commentary I wrote in relation to the rough sex stuff described in that painting. If you’re at all troubled by what you’ve read here, please read my entry from earlier this week, “The elephant in my brain.“
18×12-inch “How to Bed a Girl When Your Bed is in a Minivan” prints are available for purchase in the webstore.
I drove past a bridge this morning that was so beautiful that I caught myself actually exclaim, “holy shit,” out loud. If I needed any evidence that I’m not the miserable, cynical little shithead of years past, I think that might be it.
Here’s a painting and a “story.”
“A Plume of My Own Cigarette Smoke.” 2/20/14. Acrylic, spray, and watercolor paints, food coloring, and ink. 36×48″.
My first large, expressive painting after I decided to leave my girlfriend, break my lease, buy a van, and devote myself entirely – not only to the creation of art – but to traveling the country, chasing after whatever opportunity may come along and getting serious about building a real life and career as a professional artist.
I’m happy with this painting as “art,” less so insomuch as it’s a personal artifact. The whole thing was fueled by a sense of inadequacy and complimented by anxiety and fear as I wrapped up the loose ends in my personal life and prepared to embark on the new course I had charted for myself. A lot of my art is chaotic and busy but – in this case – I was adding to it and making changes everyday (for more than two weeks!) because I just didn’t feel like it was enough.
There’s a good deal of small print spread around this piece, addressing a veritable shit ton of emotionally-bananas nonsense. Regarding the large caption (“Sometimes I’ll see a plume of my own cigarette smoke in my peripheral and mistake it for an approaching human; so – NO – I wouldn’t say that I’m all that lonely”):
“I don’t think I’ve felt lonely since I started this. I wrote that shit in my phone a month ago and pulled it out [just now] to show the world how god damn clever I am. It was real when I thought it though but that was before I even broke up with my girlfriend.”
One of the primary objectives from my continuing care treatment plan reviews was always to go out and interact with HUMAN BEINGS more often. The night I wrote this, I went to see some bands play at Rain Dogs but was (of course) set up to sell prints and working on this painting as well. At one point, it was actually in my lap as I painted in a corner. I realized it and scribbled, “I’m out but I’m holding a four-foot canvas. AREN’T I QUIRKY?!?!” (Because I’m still not comfortable simply existing in a crowd. It makes me anxious to be seen when my presence doesn’t have an obvious purpose). Painting, or selling something, gives me one.
Between starting and finishing this painting, I met a girl that I maybe kinda sorta like a little bit. The story of our first two nights together is thoroughly documented in my EPIC POEM, “The Long Con.” On that second night though, when I FOLLOWED HER SIGNAL and made my move (only to be shot down!) I was pretty confused. At the same time, it was a relief to know that I could just hang out with her and not worry about whether I was saying or doing the right things to eventuate our sleeping together that night. After all, did I really even like her? Maybe I just wanted to feel validated by getting her to like me…
“It’s sort of a relief, it’s nothing that matters, it’s just insecurity, it doesn’t add up to shit. The day I understand anything at all… whatever. BUT HOW COME I LOOK OVER AND SHE’S SMILING AT ME LIKE THAT? WHAT DOES SHE KNOW THAT I DON’T?”
For the most part, I was able to sort of laugh off what, in that moment, I perceived as rejection. (It helped that a friend had told me she was only interested in girls). Even still, I don’t get all that bold that often. I usually find a way to guarantee that there’s a green light before I put my fragile little ego on the line like I did. The aftershock of the incident had me feeling a little shaky. This was the eve of a much bolder risk; this was the night before I started the next phase of my life. My next scribble said, “I’m leaving tomorrow and scared and on edge and cry and shoot drugs.” While I didn’t actually cry and I definitely didn’t shoot any drugs, that’s the kind of self-pity/doubt that I was slipping in and out of. (Girls are DANGEROUS for me).
I was still struggling to find happiness in my painting. I was trying too hard. When I finally went back to basics and scratched out SOME FUNNY FACES, I had an epiphany: “I am reinvigorated by funny faces. Sometimes I try to expand and grow as an artist. FUCK THAT! Write what you know (my own mental instability); paint what you know (funny faces).” I started to feel better immediately. Not that that stopped me from finding new and exciting ways to fuck up or otherwise complicate my life! Within a day or so, I had cause to add…
“I’m in the middle of a 61-day crystal/herb spiritual healing. I was told that my [ultimate] spiritual goal should be “to be an excellent father” even though I said I didn’t think I wanna have kids [‘cause I’m too self-absorbed / preoccupied to ever be a decent father]. Long story short, cumming on her face tonight seemed too IMPERSONAL so – between the two things – I decided to make her the first girl I’ve ever intentionally cum inside of. She wasn’t mad but I’m OUT OF MY MIND. (Her too).”
So now I was mixed up and sleeping with four girls but only excited about one of them and – in moments – questioning even the authenticity of my feelings for her. BECAUSE I DON’T UNDERSTAND MY OWN BRAIN SOMETIMES. And I definitely have trouble trusting my feelings. AND I’M EMOTIONALLY FICKLE! As I concluded with my in-painting journal:
“I keep trying to get girls to fall in love with me AND IT KEEPS WORKING. And then I sort of lose interest and feel like an asshole. It’s not like I’m fully planning it that way but it keeps happening and I should probably know better by now. MAYBE I FINALLY DO??”
I stopped and seriously considered it. “Am I done? Do I finally get it? Am I ready to stop fucking around and validating myself by (as I love to put it) tricking girls into thinking I’m worthwhile?”
“J/K LOL,” I added, and my painting was finished.
October 2024 update: This painting was up in a Chicago gallery until it was scheduled to be in an exhibit I had booked elsewhere. A friend of mine in Chicago went to pick it up for me as I was in some other state at the time. About a week later, I was scheduled to arrive in Chicago to pick it up but two nights before I got there, my friend’s then (shitty) girlfriend got mad at him for some (unimportant) reason. She then moved all of his things out of their home (including my/this painting) and into the back alley by the dumpsters. Even though she had no issues with me, knew it was mine (not his), and knew I was coming to get it in just two days. She did it to punish him by (hopefully) making me mad at him. I was instead, of course, only furious with her.
When she told him not to come home at all that night, he didn’t. (He didn’t know at the time what she’d done with his things). He returned in the morning and found out. Thankfully, everything he owned was still there. But my painting had been taken.
To this day, I don’t know who took it. If by some miracle, the person who took it (or has otherwise come into possession of it) one day reads this, I’d love to hear from you. (EVEN IF YOU’RE NOT INTERESTED IN GIVING IT BACK). It would be nice to at least know that it’s with someone who appreciates it. Or even to know that some other artist took it and painted over it (as much as that might sting). I “just want closure!” I’m not gonna compare this situation to losing a child but… y’know… a LITTLE BIT.
If you know what happened to this painting, please write to me. If you’d like to buy a 12×16-inch print, please visit the webstore!
this tiny little thing – every bit as much time as I spend on my
