I Wish I Were Dead | 2/3/2013 | crayon and pigment ink | 11 x 8 ½ in
In 2013, still living in an inpatient treatment facility – but having been there long enough to have some privileges – I was allowed to leave for up to two hours on Sundays if I had visitors.
When that happened, we’d usually go to a restaurant and I’d usually get a kids menu and a pack of crayons, so that I’d have something to do (to make me feel less anxious about having to interact with people that loved me).
If I wrote about this specific drawing back when I made it, I’ve since lost the text. It’s totally possible that I was very sincerely feeling like I wanted to die. But – especially back then – thoughts like I wish I were dead were just the kinda thing that constantly swirled around in my brain and brought me comfort even if I was feeling fine. I don’t remember which was the case on this particular afternoon.
It’d probably make sense for me to write a proper blog entry about everything that’s going on now, in February 2026, but I DON’T FEEL LIKE IT. Here are the bullet points:
My bus caught fire in North Carolina on the night of February 1. It (and most everything inside) was completely destroyed.
I rented a cargo van to get to Florida for the two events I had here this month.
I’ve got issues with the very concept of “pride,” but I was (admittedly) pretty fucking proud of myself for pulling my shit together so quickly and not letting the fire slow me down.
I bought a new (to me) RV a week or so ago. I was originally scheduled to be in Alabama this weekend but I did cancel that just to give myself time to finish sorting through the terribly messy aftermath of the fire and to get myself reorganized and all set up in the new RV.
I’m back on the road later this week and will stay out for at least five months. I’ve currently got events scheduled every single weekend from now through July. They’re all in the part of the country between Atlanta, Baltimore, and Chicago. What’s not already up on the calendar, I’ll add soon.
People have been incredibly loving and supportive following the fire. If you’re one of those people, thank you. If this is the first you’re hearing of it, you should PROBABLY BE FOLLOWING ME ON SOCIAL MEDIA [TikTok, Instagram, Facebook].
Originally, they were all one large drawing, but I liked them better in smaller pieces so I cut the page up into four differently-sized segments.
Visually, they don’t look quite like anything else I’ve ever made. Part of that is because they’re ink, not paint, but there’s a reason they don’t even look like my other ink drawings. When I picked the drawing up and looked at the back of the paper, there was a ton of bleed-through – and it looked really cool. I liked the back of the paper better than the side I’d colored. So I flipped the paper over and redid all of the black outlines on that side. And then I wrote out all of my text. Which, in this one, says…
“You made it into my art. I guess you affected me. Just like you wanted.”
It’s about a girl I was dating pretty casually but who was really into the idea of getting me very emotionally invested in her – even though she wasn’t particularly invested in me. I imagine that had something to do with her bipolar disorder. In any case, as the drawing indicates, she did ultimately succeed in fucking with my emotional well-being.
BULLY FOR HER.
7×5-inch prints of “Just Like You Wanted” and the other drawings in this series are available in the webstore. Send a message for current availability of original drawings.
“Bubbles 2.0” | 1/29/26 | crayon and pigment ink on bristol | 8 x 6 in
From March 13th, 2013
In the last year, I learned to use art as a tool for emotional health. Since I’ve been out of treatment, I’ve been doing well in that area, but my counselor insists I still need to improve my social health.
One day, I accidentally went out to lunch with some people. I crept around until I found the restaurant’s stock of crayons and paper. I didn’t have anything in mind when I started (other than removing myself from the world around me so I wouldn’t have to interact awkwardly with other human beings) so I just chose a color that appealed to me and drew some shapes I liked. At some point, I decided what the shapes were, added to them to form the image of a kid blowing a bubble, and then captioned it with the first thing that came to mind.
This little drawing has no unique significance to me, but – like a lot of what I do – it’s evidence of how far I’ve come. Granted, one could suggest that – ideally – I wouldn’t feel the need to escape reality at all, but I think drawing is a big step up from shooting heroin. And – while I can see some validity to the opposing point of view – I don’t think social interaction is all that much more important than doing something that helps me feel productive and (in a very real sense) valuable.
For years, I’d wake up with a sigh, as I contemplated another day of being alive and – even worse – being me. Sometimes I create things that have a deeper meaning. Other times, I just draw little cartoons that I think are cute or clever and are little more than they appear. Both of these kinds of art are important because both are pieces of what makes me happy to be living and breathing as Sam North. A lot of people could do what I do, but a lot of people don’t. For whatever reason, I do – and that’s something I’ve been rewarded for in innumerable ways every day. What I once considered a terrible fate, I’m now incredibly grateful for. I’m pretty excited about being me.
From January 29th, 2026
The earlier (now retired) digitally manipulated print
When I first started making art, I didn’t know it was important to get good captures of my finished work. Getting a decent reproduction of “Bubbles” required digitally manipulating a blurry photo to the point that it didn’t really look like the original drawing anymore. I sold a bunch of “Bubbles” prints but it never sat right with me that they looked so different.
Lately, I’ve been more focused on presentation. That’s meant raising my own standards. To keep “Bubbles” in my print inventory, I’d have to redo it. So I traced the original photograph onto bristol, re-colored it with crayon, and did the outlines in pigment ink. Hence “Bubbles 2.0.”
“Uncertainty over Unhappiness.” 5/5/25. Ink on bristol. 10×10″.
This drawing started with a request: “Will you make a painting of my house?”
Yeah, um, absolutely not.
But I told the guy I could do my usual nonsense but work his house somewhere in there.
He was cool with that but told me he didn’t want any BAD WORDS or NEGATIVE MESSAGES. As if I couldn’t have deduced that on my own. I don’t take instructions but I’m not gonna deliver something I know the buyer won’t like. And someone who starts off with a request like his – he wants something SAFE. Safe = uplifting, positive. Hope, not despair. And NOTHING TOO FUNNY OR CYNICAL.
Listening to a podcast, I heard something that I’d written about many times before: “People will choose unhappiness over uncertainty.” Hearing it articulated by someone else made it feel especially profound – particularly in relation to someone who’d been blowing up my phone all day. I knew UNCERTAINTY VS UNHAPPINESS had to be the theme here; I just needed a positive angle on it.
I wrote a journal into the drawing:
It’s frustrating when someone you love chooses to rot in misery. What’s she so afraid of? Why can’t she break away?
BUT I DID THE SAME THING. I surrendered to an empty life because my familiar rut was comfortable compared to other hells I’d called home (or the hell in my imagination).
SOMETIMES A SAFETY NET IS MORE NET THAN SAFETY. I had to lose mine to break free.
But uncertainty is better than unhappiness. “Someday this will all be over” and the regrets I’ve got are enough. Despair’s not worth much; might as well trade it for uncertainty. It’s worth the risk.
I was trying to articulate the sense of danger that breaking out of a rut often requires. You don’t like what your life’s become but you’re afraid to change anything. I did this for YEARS, so I get it. I told myself, “It could be SO MUCH WORSE. Surely, this degree of unhappiness is manageable.”
But that’s not living- it’s surviving. And our time is limited. We need to be bold. We need to chase dreams. And so long as we’re making a genuine effort – following our hearts instead of giving in to fear – I think it’s rare for things to go too wrong.
It’s only in resignation that we sink into really deep, lasting depressions. Nobody making a real effort is sad all the time because making an effort is ENERGIZING. The pursuit itself makes us feel good. Even when I’ve fallen short or things didn’t work out exactly as I’d like, I’ve yet to regret any steps I’ve taken to improve my life.
On the other hand, when I’ve resisted change – just to hold onto the pathetic little comforts I thought made my life bearable: I’d give just about anything to go back and let my shit fall apart sooner – so that I could get better sooner.
If you’ve gotta convince yourself that you’re happy, you’re not. And you won’t be until you make serious changes. And you probably already know what those changes are. If you’re afraid, don’t be. In considering bold, positive steps, the things we’re afraid to lose are likely keeping us sick. And the thing we’re actually most likely to lose is our misery.
A note about this drawing’s origins…
Toward the end of my eight-and-a-half year relapse, I’d become so resigned to addiction for the rest of my life, that I decided to try to start making art again. Until that point, it’d always been my policy that art and drugs would never coexist in my life. I started one painting and one drawing but didn’t get very far. This was the drawing. It sat unfinished for months while I was still using.
The guy who originally wanted to commission a painting of his house wasn’t paying enough for any painting (even if, as agreed, I’d make whatever I wanted and just include his house somewhere in it). So I offered him a 10×10-inch drawing instead, with the plan that I’d finally finish this one, which had been sitting untouched for a year even after I got clean. He agreed, so that’s what I did.
It’s been a little bit of a rough month. Four of my last five dates got canceled for weather. Wind in Venice, an ice storm in Columbia, and now snow in Greensboro and Charlotte. It’s a pretty major financial hit, so I have to remind myself that I’m still doing VERY WELL.
I’ll be back in Florida next week for the Downtown Sarasota Festival of the Arts. Judging just by the exhibitor standards and the cost to participate, it seems like a more exclusive step-up from the other events I’ve done in the past. I’m excited to see if it draws a wealthier crowd – the kind of people who’ll drop four-figures, right then and there, for a painting they like. Up to this point, I haven’t sold any of my more expensive paintings at an event like this. I’ve sold smaller ones for a few hundred and I’ve met people who followed-up and later bought a more expensive painting but never on the spot.
I still want to get into more galleries (which is where I’ve historically sold my bigger, more expensive paintings) but if it turns out that I can find the right buyers at art festivals – THAT’S COOL TOO. I’ve currently got a bunch of applications in for similar events scattered across the southeast and midwest. Decisions on those applications start coming in next month.
I’m a little nervous that my work, at first glance, might turn off some jurors at “higher tier” festivals, but I have no doubts about the strength of my work. I’m optimistic that some jurors will recognize its value, even quickly flipping through applications on a screen and missing smaller details, like the more meaningful passages of text. Though I also know some will scoff at what they perceive as crude titles (without looking any deeper) or that some purists might say things like, “This guy is a writer masquerading as a painter. Real artists don’t need words to be evocative.”
They’re wrong, of course. People want to connect on a deeper level and language makes that possible. My text enhances my paintings in the same way lyrics enhance a song.
Does it sound like I’m GETTING DEFENSIVE? Defensive against a critic who (thus far) only exists in my head?
I mean, that’s pretty on brand for me, wouldn’t you say?
Arguing with ghosts is fun. I ALWAYS WIN.
Check the Events page for more info on everything I’ve got coming up. Prints of “Uncertainty over Unhappiness” are now available in the webstore.
It’s probably a consequence of the specific “world” I grew up in but I don’t really know too many people who are succeeding. A lot of my friends struggle. Some aren’t especially happy.
I don’t envy my friends that put in 40 hours on shit they don’t particularly like, to make some dipshit (that’s dumber than they are) richer than they are.
And then they pay rent. To a LANDLORD. Because he owns the properties. Inherited, or bought with money most of us will never have.
The system is fucked. AND WE’RE (mostly) WHITE KIDS. (Or more recently/accurately, white “adults”). We’ve got SOME DEGREE OF PRIVILEGE.
Then again, like attracts like; my friends are like me. And being a working-class, too-smart-for-your-own-good basketcase isn’t exactly a recipe for UPWARD CLASS MOBILITY.
There’s this lyric: “the decks are stacked and the house always wins when the dealer’s crooked … but we’ve been counting cards. We’re fucking fed up; shit’s gone too far.”2
I love that line. The world’s gonna cheat us and we’ve still gotta play the hand we’re dealt, so fuck THEIR rules. We’ll play it our way, with every trick we’ve got.
I often describe my art career as “A PRETTY GOOD SCAM.” That’s honestly what it feels like.
I wake up every day and do whatever the fuck I want. I write about myself and paint funny facesin ridiculous colors – and then I getpaid for it. I’m not rich, but I’m not poor either. In the last year, I’ve loaned or given money to friends and family that have fucking jobs.
When I started down this path, I had zero technical ability as an artist (AND I’VE NOT GAINED MUCH SINCE THEN). I’ve refined my eye for color and composition, but what I have most of all is a personality, a worldview, and the ability and willingness to articulate it (in a way that other people find funny, insightful, and resonant). That’s been the key ingredient in my success. I’m the only person in the world who can do exactly what I do.
But my broken brain, personality, worldview, and INABILITY TO EVER SHUT THE FUCK UP also led me to heroin. And heroin has eaten years of my life and taken me to horribly traumatic places that I’d tell you about IF I WANTED TO START CRYING RIGHT NOW.
Ultimately, heroin led me to expressive art therapy. Which I hated because I was bad at it. But I really liked the way the other mental cases responded when it’d be my turn in group to talk about what I’d made. They laughed when I wanted. They were affected when I wanted. And they fed me praise.
Returning to the world, I needed an income, but I’d never successfully held a job. I’m INSUBORDINATE.
Though I didn’t have the first clue if it was even possible, or how to go about it, I decided to see if anyone would buy my art. Turns out it was possible right outta the gate.
Three years later, I experienced the worst trauma of my life, fell the fuck apart, relapsed for 8 years, and resigned myself to failure and addiction forever. Until my girlfriend decided the future might look better with someone else. So I got clean (TO SHOW HER) and started painting again. I anxiously anticipated it blowing up in my face, but didn’t know what else to do.
Wanna know the really fucked up part? A year and change later, I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I wake up excited each day. I’m excited for the future.
Monday through Thursday is a lot of writing, inventory, accounting, logistics, booking, website and bus maintenance.
Friday through Sunday, I set-up a killer display of THE BEST FUCKING ART EVER MADE and I work on my latest painting while singing along to all my favorite punk rock, as strangers give me their money in exchange for the products of my mental illness, my personality, my traumas, and my victories.
A lot of my life’s been pretty miserable. I’ve got some dark stories. I’ve lived through dark YEARS.
But “The Luckiest Little Shit in the World” is a victory product. It’s a victory lap on 2025, when I relaunched my art career, killed it, and had a fucking blast. It’s really not even fair how much fun I’m having and how much the world rewards me for it. I really do feel like the luckiest little shit in the world.
FOR NOW. Fear and anxiety are never far from my mind. These good feelings are fairly new and I’m still sorta broken – I’m still me – and thank fucking god for that.
It’s the key ingredient.
I’m sure there’s some degree of recency bias, but this just might be my favorite thing that I’ve ever painted. I think I mentioned in my blog entry for “So Smart”3 that I had a sorta epiphany in October, when I realized that I was happier than I’ve ever been. That’s when I came up with the concept for this painting and I couldn’t wait to finish “So Smart” and get to this one. It pleases me to no end that it turned out every bit as well as I could’ve hoped.
Virtually all of this painting’s statement appears right on the canvas [starting in the square-headed, rainbow-toothed figure at the bottom left]. There’s some additional text scattered about too though. Some of it’s stuff that also appears in the statement/main body of text but some’s totally different. I’m not gonna transcribe all of it here but it includes:
Embarrassing, insecure, spur-of-the-moment journaling after two girls separately propositioned me, and how that felt validating even though there’s only one girl I really want attention from right now. (90% of this is written on the top edge of the canvas so can only be read from the actual painting).
The realization that I’ve somehow never had to get a job to pay bills.
The recognition that – even if you took away everything else that’s good in my life – the unreasonable amount of joy I get from miserable punk songs still gives me an unfair advantage (toward being happy) over everyone else on the planet.
“Is the universe FUCKING WITH ME or looking out for me by giving me two disappointing weekends right after I start a painting about how I’m SO GOD DAMNED #BLESSED?”
And some other random stuff about not making enough money – then immediately making more than enough money – plus some anxiety written in a moment when I stopped being stoked on this painting, thought it wasn’t gonna be good enough, only to quickly figure out how to make it better and get stoked on it again.
On Monday night, I was rejected for some group exhibition at a gallery, for which I’d thought I was a shoe-in because I’ve become too self-assured when it comes to my work. I wrote about that in more detail here.
Yesterday, I was accepted to (what I understand to be) an art festival held in particularly high-regard. I’m putting in applications to lots of similar events in the coming weeks. I’m excited to see how those all play out.
There’s a lot here that calls to mind earlier work. The other paintings featured in this blog entry are the ones with statements I’ve hyperlinked in the body of the text. ↩︎
The song I’m referencing is “Countin’ Cards” by Escape from the Zoo: ↩︎
Nope – it’s in the statement for “All the Time Lost,” which I’ve not yet published online. ↩︎
“Poetry by (2,025) Girls I’ve Brutally Fucked” | 5/10/25* | acrylics on canvas | 12 x 24 in
I painted this as the front and back covers for a split 7-inch by Apocalypse Meow and Todd Congelliere. It was the first time I’d done a commissioned piece in my usual/expressive style instead of taking the more labored cartoon/illustration approach.
The caption (“I was talking to this girl I REALLY GAVE IT TO. She said she wrote a poem about it. A poem about my fucking. That made me smile.”) seemed a little much for a pop punk record so I replaced it with the band names on the actual record layout.
I hadn’t actually seen the poem yet when I made this, but I read it soon after. Turns out it was only partially about “my fucking” and way more beautiful, affectionate, and insightful than I feel like I deserve. It’s really great and – in that way – makes me feel kind of shitty, even though I didn’t do anything wrong. We had sex, it was fun; we hung out, it was fun; and then we repeated that cycle a few times. I guess friendship and fucking don’t really go together without feelings developing.
I’ve been sleeping around lately, getting involved with different girls to different degrees; I’m probably asking for trouble. I’m probably about to fuck myself – one way or another. There’s a lot more I could write about all that but I don’t wanna push myself to be too honest / transparent right now. That feels okay.
There’s this other girl… I wrote (what I guess I’d call) a long prose poem about her and about my experience with her in the week after we met. I’d developed feelings of my own for her [how novel!] But I was conscious of the fact that – this sort of thing – it does happen fairly often with me. I wrote a little bit about that too:
I’ve got these fucking warm, fuzzy feelings for a lot of people. A lot of my friends – I love them, I hug them, all that. But when I have these feelings for girls [I’m attracted to] (it doesn’t matter how many) I love them and I also want to kiss them, sleep with them [etc.] I don’t think that’s wrong or weird but you’re not supposed to do that. You’re supposed to have feelings for one person that are strong enough that you don’t even want to connect with another person in that way. That seems like bullshit.
I don’t know… maybe I’m just selfish. Love and sex are all twisted up and make for difficultly-navigable terrain. I just wanna love and fuck without being confused.
Everything from here forward was written in May 2025. Everything written above this is from 12 years ago, in the period when I was the most girl-crazy and the most promiscuous. I was meeting lots of girls that wanted to sleep with me and I think I was just really excited about that because that, in itself, was sorta new. It was the first time (since I’d been a teenager) that I wasn’t in a committed, monogamous relationship, and it was the first time ever that I’d had confidence that I wasn’t entirely faking.
A year or so after all that though, I relapsed and then (another year or so later) I tried to kill myself. Right before the attempt, I lit my biggest painting on fire and then slashed and smashed the others. There were seven in all and – when I was FEELING BETTER – I started the process of stitching them all up with dental floss. This one wasn’t super torn up but it was so badly smashed that it needed to be stretched across new bars. For that reason, it was the last one I got around to restoring. I just did it recently but also decided that the painting itself needed some work. Like the actual art wasn’t up to my standards anymore. Which makes sense because I made it more than a decade ago. So that’s what I did. You can see the original “finished” version of the painting here.
This painting is not the kinda thing I’d make today. That thought in the fourth paragraph (about “asking for trouble”) is ESPECIALLY PRESCIENT. ‘Cause that’s exactly what happened – and to a more traumatizing degree than I could have ever imagined. But even though the sentiment of this painting is the kinda thing that could SEND THE WRONG MESSAGE in 2025, I don’t wanna change those elements of it. I like being honest. I like telling the full story. I’d just turned 28 and I’d spent most of the years prior in a single committed relationship. So now I was in a phase of experimentation. And I was pretty excited about it. And while I’m embarrassed by just about everything in this painting’s statement, I don’t really think I should be. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with rough sex or liking rough sex or even just figuring out what kinds of sex you like. So long as you’ve got a consenting, enthusiastic partner, be adventurous. Go for it. Do whatever. Life’s too short to not find happiness and fulfillment wherever you can.
This has no business being on the internet but I’m neurotic and can’t stand the idea of leaving something out of my “portfolio.” I’m very much taking advantage of the fact that my mailing list was lost in the domain transfer and very few people will be notified that this is now online.
Inpatient facility. 2012. The assignment was to write a list of ten “core beliefs” – my absolute truths – through which I filter every experience. They were pretty dark.
#1: I am ugly.
#2: I am a problem.
#5: I am only tolerated.
#10: Nothing matters.
But there was one out of the ten that was positive.
#4: I am smart.
“So Smart” | 11/23/2025 | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas | 12 x 36 in
When I was a kid, I thought I was so smart that things would just sorta work out for me no matter what. I ignored all conventional advice. Took nothing seriously.
As a teenager, I told my dad that I’d been shooting heroin for a year, (I think mostly) just to see how he’d respond. He kinda sighed and said, “Well, at least you’re not smoking crack. I hear that’s the drug that will hook you immediately and destroy your life.”
So the next day, I smoked crack for the first time, just to prove my dad wrong. Everything everyone believed was wrong. I was smarter than everyone.
When I was first introduced to “expressive art therapy,” my response was something along the lines of: “I’m a suicidal basketcase, I can’t keep a needle out of my arm, and you want me to color? Go fuck yourself.”
But treatment pushes the idea that you’re “powerless over your addiction.” That you can’t solve the problem on your own. Eventually (VERY SLOWLY) I became more receptive to taking advice even when I thought it was stupid and pointless.
Art, it turned out, could keep a needle out of my arm. It went from being a frustrating chore to all I wanted to do. It gave me an outlet to express myself, validation, and (something that at least resembles) self-esteem. And eventually it gave me a path. It gave me tasks and goals – a fucking to-do list to keep me busy and off drugs, while also supporting me financially. It gave me freedom from addiction, from poverty, and from the kinds of jobs I’ve never wanted and could never do.
That kid who thought everything would work out for him on the basis of his SPARKLING WIT and KEEN INSIGHT – he was a fucking idiot. Things have not all worked out for me. I spent years living in hell.
But I don’t anymore. Shit is working out. And as hard and as often as I work, it could be argued that I’m kinda skating through life on personality. Even the work I don’t enjoy, it’s all in service of something I love.
With all the money and praise regularly FED to me by strangers, all the people who look to me for advice or tell me how brilliant some painting, writing, or element of my business model is, it’s easy sometimes to feel like I just might be SO SMART I GOT LIFE LESSONS DRIPPING OUT MY BUTTHOLE.
That said, all of this is built around something I’d initially rejected with total contempt. So it’s maybe not the worst idea for me to remind myself of the remote possibility that – despite my REMARKABLE LIFE EXPERIENCE and the TREMENDOUS WISDOM I regularly bestow – I maybe don’t know everything about everything.
MAYBE.
I wasn’t CHAMPING AT THE BIT to spill my guts when I started this painting, so (in the absence of FRESH INSPIRATION) I stole an idea from YOUNGER SAM.
As luck would have it, I did hit upon major inspiration shortly therafter, which had me super eager to finish this one so that I could move on to what would be my next painting – one that I was already WAY TOO EXCITED about. (It’s at the studio getting photographed this week, so I’ll get it online soon).
I’m proud to say though that I still didn’t rush “So Smart.” In fact, I may have been even more meticulous than usual. Consequently, while it may not be my favorite piece conceptually, I think it’s rad as fuck visually. I just got the prints made and they’re already selling really well. They’re 5×14″ and you can GET YOURS from the webstore orfind me in person. Speaking of which…
Continuing with the recent trend of upping my game (in terms of presentation), I recently upgraded virtually everything about my art fair booth. I keep tweaking and improving it further still, so will wait to post a photo until after the weekend when I photograph its latest form, but you can catch a look on TikTok or Instagram.
Oh – the CBS and NBC affiliates both put me on the local news this month. So THAT’S COOL. Here’s the CBS (10 Tampa Bay) clip.
Anyway, I’ve been booking up 2026 pretty quickly. Lots of dates with the Southeast Punk Flea Market (’cause I love the SE PFM) and then (now that I meet all the EXHIBITOR STANDARDS) I’ve been filling the rest of my weekends with as many proper/juried art fairs as I can find. I’ll update the Events page (with more details) soon but here are the cities I’m gonna be in through March.
Jan 16-18 Venice, FL
Jan 24+25 Columbia, SC
Jan 26-29 Durham, NC
Jan 31 Greensboro, NC
Feb 1 Charlotte, NC
Feb 7+8 & 14+15 Sarasota, FL
Feb 21+22 Dothan, AL
Feb 28+March 1 Windermere, FL
Mar 7+8 Augusta, GA
Mar 14+15 Charleston, SC
Mar 28+29 Hickory, NC
Even if you think you’re already subscribed to my updates, PLEASE SUBSCRIBE AGAIN ’cause the old mailing list did not move over when the site moved from sammythrashLife.com to samnorth.art.
Thanks for reading. TALK SOON.
Statement is done. Tap here to read the personal updates that will soon embarrass me.
