Stupid Kids With Stupid Dreams

September 23, 2024

The painting, “Stupid Kids With Stupid Dreams” is about two friends throwing caution to the wind and making the most of life by focusing on what really matters to them. The story of the painting – as a physical object – takes a darker turn, rife with petty, interpersonal drama. If you’re not interested in that and just want the good stuff, I’ve rigged this page to let you skip past the behind-the-scenes hurt feelings and just get to the painting and its positive message.

Origin

One of my (oldest and very best) friend’s girlfriend hit me up to commission a painting. The two of them were moving in together and she wanted to give it to him as a surprise housewarming gift. She paid for it, I set to work, and – before I finished – he dumped her because he’s afraid of commitment. I asked her what I should do with the painting once finished. She said to just go ahead and give it to him anyway.

Before that would happen, he tried to get her to take him back (even though this was the second time he’d dumped her for no good reason). This time she said no. He was devastated even though – again – HE WAS THE ONE WHO DUMPED HER.

His ex had chosen this gift because of how much he loved my art. Seeing as it no longer needed to be a surprise, I figured I could cheer him up a little by telling him about it.

And he said that he was too heartbroken to want to hang it on his wall because it would remind him of her and upset him.

That hurt my feelings pretty badly. He’d bought some of my prints before and some of my less expensive drawings, but now he was finally going to have his own original Sammy thrashLife PAINTING (for free!) and he… didn’t want it?

Abandonment

“Dude – how about instead of thinking of her when you look at it, you think of ME, YOUR BEST FRIEND. WHO PAINTED THIS ESPECIALLY FOR YOU.”

“No” he told me. “It’s too painful; it’ll just remind me of her.”

I tried to talk sense to him. Reminded him that, in a few months, he wouldn’t give a shit about this girl anymore – that there’d be another girl for him to take for granted – BUT THAT THIS PAINTING WOULD BE HIS FOREVER. Not only as something to enjoy on the wall (simply because he likes my artwork) but as a reminder of our decades-long friendship.

Nope. Unconvinced. He didn’t want it. And, again, I can’t stress how much this hurt my feelings. But I stopped arguing and just accepted it. And then was in no rush to finish it because… well, why would I be now? And then I relapsed and stopped painting for a long time anyway.

Time passes

A year or so later, I got clean for a minute and finally finished. He was still living on the other side of the country (as he had been for many years) but was in town visiting so I brought it up with him again and – yes – now he did want it. But he was moving back here soon so – rather than take it back across the country with him, only to have to move it down with the rest of his stuff in a month, he’d just get it from me once he returned.

In the years since he’d moved away, every time he came to visit, we’d met up as soon as his plane landed and only split back up when he was on his way back to the airport.

But when he moved back, I barely heard from him. We kept sort of making plans but it just kept not happening. Considering how much time we’d spent together and how well we’d gotten along every time he’d visited (most recently, just a month prior) it was pretty strange.

A few years have passed now and I could probably count on one hand the number of times we’ve hung out since then. Even though we live five minutes away from each other.

Two sides to every story (this is my side)

I don’t wanna talk shit but the simple truth is we’re not really friends anymore and he’s not really the same person any more. His priorities have changed, his taste in music has changed, his politics have changed, his whole worldview and ideology have changed. We don’t really have anything in common anymore. Just one example: those “stupid dreams” of ours that this painting is about? He gave up on his. Which – as I acknowledge in the text on the canvas – is fine in/of itself. It’s the reasons he gave up on it – which are also pretty emblematic of why we don’t get along anymore.

Initially, I thought maybe he’d come around some day. After all, we went through something similar twenty years ago when he had an identity crisis at the end of our teenage years and decided that he no longer liked everything he’d loved and identified with (and shared in common with me). But a couple years later, his crisis ended and he was himself again. I thought maybe this was just  “round 2” of that – a mid-life crisis of sorts. But it’s been four years and it’s starting to seem like less of an identity crisis than maybe just that he never really had an identity to begin with.

Rant

Call me crazy but I feel like there are core elements of who each of us is as a person that shouldn’t really change. Or maybe I’m just a “stupid kid” who never grew up. I’m pretty sure that’s how he would describe me at this point. But you know what? I’d rather be a stupid kid with a stupid dream, scrappin’ my way through life, doing what I love than [allow me to role play for a moment] an “adult” working a shit job and making monthly payments on my status symbol car – that I only have so I can condescend to people about “work ethic,” “growing up,” and how anyone living in poverty “just isn’t trying hard enough” (while seemingly overlooking the fact that even I’m selling coke on the side just to afford my performative lifestyle – totally oblivious to what would happen if I got arrested and how much that would complicate everything – and how that’s exactly what’s happened to thousands before me – people with far fewer options than my privileged ass had (and how maybe poverty isn’t just a question of effort)).

I’m getting a little bogged down in the minutiae of what I don’t love about this guy’s transformation… What I’m saying is he’s not someone I relate to anymore. I don’t understand him anymore. I miss my friend. The one who teared up when he finally did see this painting for the first time because it expressed a sentiment he still understood then.

The actual text in the painting

Trying to make it in/as a pop punk band in 2019, as an artist at any time, or even just trying to forge a REAL, EMOTIONAL CONNECTION WITH ANOTHER HUMAN BEING (okay, I’m only half-joking about that last one) – it wouldn’t be unfair to say that you’d have to be pretty dumb to (1) believe that any of these were even potentially worthwhile endeavors or (2) to shape your life toward the achievement of such a goal. After all…

Q: What’re the odds that any of these things could possibly pan out at all, let alone in any lasting, long-term sense?

A: NOT GOOD.

But here we are, at it all the same. IT’S PROBABLY NOT GOING TO WORK OUT. There may well come a day when we’re forced to accept that it’s just not gonna happen for us. A day when we have to give up, scrap the dream, and just move on. And you know what? That’s okay. ‘Cause – in the meantime – here we are: taking aim, firing shots, and doing the shit we love. We deal with rejection, frustration, doubt, and more. But we also have fun. We get the highs and the lows. We’ve had more wild experiences and adventures than most people will ever even read about. And our shit’s real and it’s ours. We did it. Whatever happens, we’ve ALREADY WON. You can put that shit on my tombstone ‘cause, even if I die tonight, I’ll know I made it count.

“Stupid Kids With Stupid Dreams” 6/27/20. Acrylic paint. 24×24″.

Reflecting

I don’t feel great about the blog entry for this (one of my more positive paintings) being so focused on something negative – especially considering that quite a bit of my recent work has at least partly been in a similar vein. But life can’t always be rainbows and puppy dogs. Still,I know that I need to watch myself because it’s not a great sign for my mental health that I’ve been uncharacteristically preoccupied with interpersonal strife. Anger, spite, resentment – these things aren’t good for me. And (if I can be psychologically vain for a moment) they don’t look good on me either. This turmoil and drama isn’t reflective of the person I see myself as or want to be seen as.

Which isn’t to say that anything I’ve written isn’t true. But the fact that I’m focusing my energy on those things instead of something more positive – that’s the problem. Everyone has bad experiences; everyone has friendships that fall apart. Writing about those things isn’t bad in itself; I just know that if I were happier, I would be less inclined to write about them and – even when I did – I’d filter them through a more constructive lens and finish with a more uplifting conclusion. But even that awareness is a good sign. I’m grateful that I’m still well enough to at least recognize what’s going on. And these kinds of acknowledgments are good first steps in a better direction.

Anyway – about the painting (WHICH IS ITSELF VERY POSITIVE AND UPLIFTING AND FULL OF LIGHT), unclaimed as it is – I’ve got it on my wall until I find a buyer that’ll appreciate it. LET ME KNOW IF THAT’S YOU! I’ve also got 12×12-inch prints of it (as always, hand-numbered and signed by yours truly). Pick one up if you wanna support a stupid kid with a stupid dream.

untitled prose poem

September 8, 2024

I wrote a stream-of-consciousness prose poem. It doesn’t have a title. It may or may not find its way into the painting I’m working on right now. It’s about the girl who says she can’t live without me – and the guy that she rebounded with when we broke up – who she’s still living with because she’s too piss-scared of change to crawl out of her rut.

If you’re going to cling to a safety net
Could you at least choose one that’s less pathetic?
A chronic masturbator, jerking off in his car
Into socks that he lets pile up in the back seat…

I know you like having someone you know will never leave you
Or hold you accountable for anything
But how about a chronic masturbator
who jerks off into tissues that he throws away?

‘Cause it’s embarrassing having to try to explain
Why we’re not together
Even though you’re in love with me
That this is a tough choice for you
DOES NOT REFLECT WELL ON ME

I think you’re afraid to be in a healthy relationship
Which is why you never leave the bad ones
I know you’ll try to come back to me
(Because you’re still trying)
But I know you’ll try harder
You will eventually make a real effort
But even if I took you back for real
And we made a real go of it
I don’t think you’d stick around
Because you wouldn’t be comfortable
With someone who makes you happy
With someone you like fucking
With someone who loves you
And dotes on you
You’re too used to neglect
And alienation
And watching TV on separate couches
And sleeping in the same bed
Without ever making physical contact

It breaks my fucking heart
How scared you are
How broken you are
How much fun we have
How much love we have
Until you self-sabotage
So I pull back
And you go back
To living alone
In a house with someone else
Where you drink
And cry
And are always sick
And never happy
Until we reconnect again
And you start to heal
And start to love
And start to smile
And laugh
And everyone can see how happy you are
And how in love we are
Until you fuck it up all over again
And the cycle goes on

I’m too old now
To be wasting time repeating the same mistakes
I’m ready to be happy
It breaks my heart
That it won’t be with you

Because you’re everything I want
You’re my dream girl
I can’t imagine
Being more attracted to
Having more fun with
Having better sex with
Sharing more love with
Anyone else
You’re perfect
Except for that one little thing
Inside of your brain
That nullifies everything else
That makes it all worthless
Because it’ll never work
Because you’re too afraid
to just let yourself be happy

And you hate yourself so much
You can’t believe anyone could really love you
Unless there’s something wrong with them
So you stay stuck in your rut
With someone that you know you at least have control over
Because he’s the personification of a wet paper bag
Except that wet paper bags
Don’t get drunk and watch Andrew Tate videos
Or have a dozen jizz-crusted socks in the backseat of their car
You can cheat on him
(And show him videos of you cheating on him)
Show him what it looks like when you’re with someone else
Who you actually love
And actually fuck
And enjoy it
You can scream at him
You can say awful things to cut him down
To make him feel totally worthless
You can be cruel
Because you resent him
Because he doesn’t make you happy
And he’ll just take it
And resent you
But never leave
Just sulk
And get drunk
And text you Andrew Tate videos

That’s the life you’re choosing
That’s what you’re afraid to let go
It’s a tragedy
A genuine fucking tragedy
Because unlike the movies
This won’t have a happy ending
Unless you make it happen
And I don’t think you can

Update from two days later (Tue, Sep 10): The same day that I wrote this (but before I’d posted it) I got a phone call from someone on this girl’s behalf. I was told that she’d been looking at keepsakes of her father (who died a little over a year ago) and had come to the realization that she didn’t want to waste one more single day of her life living without me. I was asked to please call her and hear her out. I was skeptical when she gave me all the usual lines. She was going to officially break it off with that guy and let him know that she was moving out at the end of the month. She also told me she’d already found a couple of prospective apartments. She begged me to believe her and give her another shot. I told that, frankly, I didn’t believe her but that she could come over. So that night, she asked me to pick her up. When I told her I was outside, she told her sockboy (actually, we usually call him “Lumpy” but his real name is Brett) that she was going to the kitchen for a glass of water, but instead came out and got in the car. She stayed the night and – when I dropped her back off the next day – she said she was gonna tell Lumpy the truth about everything when he got home from work and that she’d call me the next morning to come pick her up so we could spend the day together.

Instead, she texted me just to say, “I’m an idiot.” I called to ask what that meant (as if I didn’t already know) and she said that she’d only gotten as far into the conversation with Lumpy to say that things weren’t working out, but hadn’t been able to muster the courage to tell him the full truth about her and I, or that she was planning on moving out. I asked if she was still planning on moving out and – oh so predictably – she said she didn’t know. Said she needed “time” to figure it out. Even though I had already been giving her all the time and space in the world and she reached out to me (as always) to once more say she was certain now.

So I’m cutting off communication again. And hoping that’s the last time I get dragged through that same cycle. I could make excuses for why I keep letting it happen or explain what I think needs to happen for me to stop but I’ll just leave it at that for now.

Oh, wait – one more thing. Remember the part where I mentioned that she sent Lumpy a video of me fucking her in order to hurt his feelings? While drunk, he told her that he had kept the video. Because he jerks off to it. Probably while sitting in his car. Into a sock. That’s probably still lying in his back seat. What a champ. Cheers, Brett Riddick. Or Reddick. Or whatever the fuck your name is. If anyone ever has cause to Google your name one day, I hope they find this page.

SECOND UPDATE!: This poem is now also a TikTok video because 🤪.

Baby Dick Virgin

June 27, 2024

“Baby Dick Virgin.” 5/1/24. acrylic paint. 16×20″.

In the past, the smaller text in my paintings tended to be raw journals, scrawled onto the canvas in the moment. For this, my first painting in five years, I sort of typed out the story of the piece as I was going and, then, transcribed it to the canvas a little later. For that reason, the smaller text featured in the painting, essentially, is my artist’s statement for the piece. It says:

I left my girlfriend again but this time we didn’t get back together because there was some baby dick virgin waiting to pounce the second she was vulnerable and she says she likes that he looks at her like a puppy dog and even though she says she’ll never love him as much as she loves me AND THAT I’M HER SOULMATE, that because I don’t believe in soulmates and because he’s “ordinary,” maybe that would be safer for her. That’s all obviously FINE AND FUCKING DANDY except for the part that’s DRIVING ME UP THE GOD DAMN WALLS trying to decide if I miss her because I’m in love with her or if I’m just a lonely little codependent fuck who can’t stand the idea of being alive while there’s not a beautiful girl who is ACTIVELY in love with me.

It’s been two weeks since I wrote [the [preceding paragraph]. I wanna write about how I’ve FUCKED HER since then, how she took pictures of it, how her fat uncle of a boyfriend saw the pictures, forgave her, and then I FUCKED HER AGAIN (and then some). But that’s just pettiness and spite and me feeling like I got a win that I need to advertise. I’m not trying to get back together with her. I would very much like to destroy their relationship. Not just as a fuck you. I do still genuinely care about her and she’s not going to get better while she’s hiding from her issues in that joke of a rebound. She knows now that she can literally do anything and he will never drop her because he’s too pathetic and broken to ever think he could do any better. I’m VERY tempted to name this painting after him.

I ultimately did. After committing it to the canvas in giant letters, I wrote:

Choosing this title is the pettiest thing I’ve done in my work. But it’s SUCH a ridiculous choice that I couldn’t help it that the thought made me smile as much as it did. (And I argued with myself and consulted with friends but kept coming back to it, so I clearly needed to EXPEL THE VENOM so/before I could move on). I know it’s shitty, toxic masculinity and probably only highlights my own lack of self-esteem that I enjoyed winning a DICK MEASURING CONTEST as much as I did but – you know what? I never did shit to that dweeb and HE called ME from her phone to SCREAM at me for no fucking reason, at a time when I was already fragile as fuck. So fuck him – he gets what he gets and he can live with the world knowing that [redacted] he wasn’t MEASURING UP (in any way).

I promise this will be my last painting for a minute that’s secretly about HOW GREAT my own dick is. Though I’m sure it’s the first of many more that’s ACTUALLY about how fucking insecure I am, in spite of everything. BUT I’M GETTING BETTER (I swear). Today is day 23 [since I got clean again].

This next, final part is definitely less of a journal and more a defense. I anticipated some strong reactions as soon as I put the painting up on my social media and I guess I wanted to kind of preempt some of the criticism.

I’m pretty embarrassed by the sentiment of this painting but that feeling often indicates when I’m onto something that’s significant for me and/or will somehow be meaningful to other people. It also makes me feel like a little bit of a BULLY but it’s not as if I have some huge platform these days. The dink at hand might never even learn this painting exists. I feel a little guilty – even having her approval – that the previews I posted online already caused some discord in her family and anxiety for her but… I can’t control or really even concern myself with other people’s reactions. So long as I’m being honest and my work is authentic (even when partially powered by spite), I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.

The painting went online and, sure enough, even with my hedging, I still got some negative responses – even stronger than what I’d feared. One person told me they no longer wanted a painting of mine that they owned and asked for an address that they could ship it back to!  And I’m sure there were plenty more who chose the “if you don’t have anything nice to say…” path. But I also got some really great, positive responses beyond what I even hoped. People who saw past the pettiness and the ego and really seemed to understand, relate to, appreciate, and admire what I’d made. As an artist (especially a snarky little shit-eater of an artist) what more can I ask for?

“Baby Dick Virgin” has already been sold, but limited edition 11×14″ signed, hand-numbered prints are available for purchase.

Two kinds of rotten

December 22, 2013

Last January, still living in inpatient care, my friend Mary Beth got me a bunch of art supplies, including a set of calligraphy pens and inks. I got some use out of the inks  (until THOSE FASCISTS said, “You can’t give yourself tattoos in rehab, Sam – especially not sitting out by the pool“). The pens were a little more than I could handle though. I use the crow quill every now and then, but I only ever did one piece with all the different pen tips. I figure now’s a good time to throw it online, given the nature of my most recent painting.

"Rotten." 1/4/13. Calligraphy pens and black ink. 9x12".
“Rotten.” 1/3/13. Calligraphy pens and black ink. 9×12″.

It’s pretty much bullshit. It means nothing. The spoon in my hand: that’s what I was using as a tongue scraper. It’s all whatever; I was just playing around with a new toy.

“Rotten,” though, is a word I really enjoy and a feeling I’m not totally unfamiliar with. I ran a search for it on the draft of my second book and came up with a couple paragraphs about why I went to law school. I wrote this more than a year ago but just spent three hours editing it obsessively.

—–

Kevin pitched the idea and I agreed that it couldn’t hurt to just take the admissions test. At no point did I ever expect to score in the 99th percentile. Suddenly, all these schools that I never thought would even consider my application [ T14 schools] were practically begging for it. And then they were actually accepting me (even with my “criminal addendum,” failed first year of community college, and total lack of extracurriculars or wholesome activities). And they were offering me scholarships even! It was strange and – honestly – kind of exciting. It felt good and I got caught up in it, for better or worse.

I’m not sure if I ever once paused and thought, “Is this what I really want to do?” When one of the T14s – Georgetown – offered me a six-figure scholarship, my entire rationale consisted of: “this is quite the opportunity… if I don’t take advantage of it, I might regret it later…”

That’s it – that’s why I went to law school: a fear of regret. Well, that’s not all of it (it’s just the only part I’ve ever acknowledged to another human being). I also went to feel validated. It was one thing to be a shitty punk kid that shot heroin on the weekends, who was told by everyone including his mom that he was gonna grow up to be homeless and eating out of a dumpster, and who people generally regarded as less of a human being and more of a disease – to be all of that and to get straight A’s at community college or USF was [whatever]. But to fit that description and go to one of the top law schools in the country on a scholarship – this was next level. It was kind of a huge “fuck you” to everyone that looked down on me or had said I was worthless. “Rotten,” on the other hand, I was okay with. I still felt rotten – and this only concentrated it. The whole thing felt sinister. It sort of was. Fear of regret played a part but spite was right up there with it. I’ve said my law degree’s got less utility than a sheet of toilet paper but – before I got clean especially – it did serve me in that one regard: it was a pretty decent fuck you.  “I may be an asshole and a fuck-up, my clothes are tattered, my teeth are gapped out, I feel like a mutant, and I smell like cigarettes, mildew, and bad decisions, but I ALSO have a law degree from Georgetown. Where do you keep your law degree from Georgetown?”

Granted, even back when I had a use for a “fuck you,” I never actually had that conversation with anyone. But if I felt like someone was condescending to me or even just thinking they had me figured out, I’d throw it out there and watch their perception of me change in an instant. Even now, since getting out of treatment, I don’t ever have a reason to “show up” anyone or to prove shit, but it can still be a fun card to play on the rare occasion when someone (possibly looking to write me off as a dirty kid who’s too lazy to get a “real” job) asks about work or school.  I can just smile. Which gets at something else: to me, it’s more of a punchline than it is my proudest achievement. Sure – it’s pretty good indication that I’ve got the capacity to do [something or other] or make [some kind of shit] happen, but so is my time running Traffic Street  – and that means infinitely more to me.  But, shit, normal people don’t see that and I don’t wanna lie; it feels good to also have the thing under my belt that they can understand. The thing that tells ’em: if I’m opting to play with colors and paint funny faces all day, it MIGHT not be ’cause I’m a lazy idiot – I just might have my reasons…

—–

Had a long conversation with a friend tonight about the best records; it ended with me listening to Dear Landlord‘s catalog on repeat from sometime before midnight until… [it’s still going].

Here’s the last song they recorded but it better not be the last song they record.

It’s the only song of theirs that I don’t have on my iPod ’cause the download code that came with my LP doesn’t work and Adeline won’t respond to my emails. Somebody do me a solid and email me the mp3s for “The Thing That Ate Larry Livermore.”

Mother’s Day

November 29, 2013

"Mother's Day Card 2013." 5/11/13. Pen. 5x7".
“Mother’s Day.” 5/11/13. Pen. 5×7″.

I didn’t draw this for the person that gave birth to me; it was for someone that’s actually treated me like a son (for just under a decade now). Without her support (and the support of her family – which I consider my family as well – my real family) I don’t know where I’d be today. Probably dead. I was sifting through images, looking for one to share in tonight’s entry when I saw it. Given my day, it seemed sort of appropriate… And I mean that: only sort of. Because it’s something I made for someone who’s shown me unconditional love – someone that’s been a force of good in my life. And today was about something completely different…

 

—–

I spent just over three hours today sitting in my seat on the airplane, scratching contempt out into notebooks. A flight’s never gone by so fast. And I had already spent a good deal of time writing about it earlier this morning – when I woke up to find a mean, shitty, evil comment left on my website last night around 3AM (by the bag of shit that likes to call herself my mom). I’ve tried to be patient and compassionate with her over the years. I’ve tried to give her the benefit of the doubt and cut her some slack because – in her own shitty way – I’m sure she loves me and I’m sure she’s doing her best. But her “best” is really fucking terrible and I give up. I’m not going to wear myself out, trying to have some semblance of a relationship with someone that won’t call me (or even pick up my calls) – preferring instead to communicate with me solely by way of spiteful, fucked up comments posted publicly on the internet. She’s always insisted that I hate her – and ranted at me (mostly through Facebook, until I blocked her) about how I’m dead set on convincing the world what a terrible human being she is. Up until now, that couldn’t have been less true. (Run a search on this website for the word “mom”; I haven’t tried it yet, but – of more than 150 entries on just about every subject – I’m pretty sure there’ll be little to any results and I’m almost positive there won’t be anything that fits her description of my writing). I mean – FUCK – she managed to interpret last night’s entry as some kind of coded disrespectful insult against her…   It was just a picture of me with my hair combed, wearing a suit! That’s some schizophrenic level shit further up the charts than anything I ever imagined even at my most drug-addled and sleep deprived. This person isn’t well (obviously) but mental illness can only excuse so much – and it’s not a free pass into my life.

Can you tell that this shit upsets me? That it hurts me? I had no intention of writing more than a quick blurb but I get worked up just thinking about it. She’s really fucking awful and – for my own sake – I can’t afford her any place (at all) in my life anymore. I don’t enjoy focusing on this kind of negativity. It wears me out. It’s bad for me.

I deleted her comment, changed the setting on my website [from now on, comments have to be “approved” before they’ll appear on the site], and I erased her from my phone.

Maybe – later in the week – I’ll share some of the stuff I wrote today. Or maybe I’ll really give her the evidence she wants (to support her ideas about my writing) and post a list of every rotten thing she did to me when I was a little kid. Granted – that’d be some spiteful, unhealthy, feed-the-hate kinda shit on my part – but it might feel good to put it out there….

I try to be loving with every thing that I do. I’m not being loving right now – and I hate that I’m feeling this way. But – honestly… her death would be welcome news. (And I’ve felt that way for a long time). It used to be that I knew how miserable she was and I couldn’t envision a scenario in which she’d ever get the kind of help she’d need to change and find happiness; it was a compassion thing – the same as the consolation that comes with the death of a sick pet (“at least the suffering is over”). But now… today… – I’d just be relieved to know that I’ll never again have to worry about her trying to hurt me.

Some people are just too hard to love. I guess I’m going to try to focus on the people that I can love – focus on the things in my life that are good. And hopefully all this evil, rotten shit will pass and I go back to pretending she doesn’t exist.

[Update: I think I just managed to block her IP address which will be good insofar as it prevents her from ever seeing anything I make/write and having any reason to comment AND insofar as it eliminates any desire in me to post anything solely out of spite, since she’d never see it anyway].

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