My painting, Don’t Let Anyone Tell You You Can’t Kill Yourself, You TOTALLY Can, is a guide to overcoming suicidal ideation by changing your circumstances. It was born of my own experience and, like much of my work, is a whole lot of vulnerability and sincerity hiding behind the protective shield of its mischievous title (which, in this case, is a joke about grammar).
At Mount Gretna, I heard more of that PLUS ANOTHER KINDA REACTION. One of the [art] show’s volunteers quit over it. Later as a woman looked over my work, smiling and commenting on the pieces she liked most, her husband lingered outside the front of the booth. When she moved on to the next artist, this guy stayed in that same spot until…
“You should kill yourself,” he said.
“Why would I do that?” I asked with a smirk, not yet realizing how serious he was.
“Because it would be funny to me,” he said, deadpan. “I’d even pay to make it happen. I’ll donate to your funeral if you kill yourself.”
How do you even respond to that? Doesn’t matter. He turned and disappeared into the crowd as soon as the words were outta his mouth.
I’m tempted to make excuses for him. Maybe he lost someone he loves to suicide. Though he didn’t even bother to try to understand my painting – which should be a fucking prerequisite before you get pissed off at art. Doesn’t matter. Here’s what does:
What We Do | 8-25-2026 | 36 x 24 in | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas
WE ARE WHAT WE DO.
The kind of person you think you are? Fuckin’ meaningless. The things you’ve been through? They don’t excuse shit.
YOU ARE YOUR ACTIONS.
This is something I remind myself of all the time. ‘Cuz it got beat into me real early that I was born bad.
But I’m not bad, unless I do bad. So I’m regularly asking myself, “What’d you do today, Sam?”
“a pile of red boxes dances along to the raging moral and spiritual conflicts that rattle his (presumably) cardboard bones, i sing songs and paint funny faces, and some dickhead tells me to kill myself. ‘SUP WITH YOU?”
Pretty much the same thing I do most days. I shared my very personal art and writing with the world. Whatever humor or insight I have, I shared with people who FOR THE MOST PART loved and appreciated it. I made a few people cry, dozens laugh, and hundreds smile. And I painted – as I sang along to punk rock and had conversations with people who told me they were inspired. That I was a light. I got a lot of thank yous, handshakes, and hugs.
I have a positive impact. And THOUGH I CAN BE BRASH, I’m kind (or at least try to be) to everyone. That’s what I did on Sunday.
This guy, on the other hand, I’m guessing he thinks he’s a good person. And MAYBE HE IS – I don’t know what else he did that day. But I do know that he told someone who – at least historically – would best be described as an emotionally unstable mental case – he cold told that person: kill yourself.
I’m doing pretty well these days. I can brush it off. Was I rattled? More than I’d like to admit. But I’ll be alright.
I’m not gonna kill myself. I’m gonna continue waking up every day, trying to be the best person I can, by making the best choices I can.
We’re what we do.
Do good today.
I’m SO SAD to report that three of my five most recent paintings (including this one) are already sold. But if you’d like to find out which paintings are still available, you can always shoot me a message. Buy prints in my webstore or come see me in person.
Sign up for my mailing list to get updates like this one, whenever I finish a new piece. If that’s not fast enough for you, follow me on Instagram or TikTok for previews of works-in-progress (and ASSORTED NONSENSE).
At War with God | 7-23-2026 | 12 x 36 in | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas
I’m so bored of explaining AT WAR WITH GOD.
It’s an absurd, amusing concept. If you believe in God, you believe he’s the all-powerful creator of all things. No one would GO TO WAR with something like that because you know you’d lose. Unless you’re fucking insane. In which case you’re probably not a functional human being with the discipline and organization to make a living as a full-time artist.
And yet people see this painting and get upset. Like it’s literal. Like I’m trying to RECRUIT THEIR CHILDREN AS FOOT SOLDIERS TO STORM THE GATES OF HEAVEN.
I don’t like authority. Words like “insubordinate” and “rebellion” are exciting to me. I like an underdog or a fun villain. And Leonardo is the worst ninja turtle. You know what makes for good characters? Flaws. God’s not interesting.
But when you make God relatable, bring him down to your level…
Cap’n Jazz sang “Hey, God – I dare you to SAY IT TO MY FACE?” Characterizing God as a petty coward who only talks his shit behind your back – SO MUCH FUN.
As much as I’d like to believe in God, I don’t. It’s just not in me. But it’s FUN TO PRETEND – to have him as a symbolic adversary.
The world’s never felt like it was designed for my success. Life’s often felt rigged against me. If God created this game I’m not meant to win, then every success is a skirmish I’ve won in my WAR WITH GOD.
Christians will say I’ve got it backward. My successes are God lifting me up.
Who cares?
Certainly not an all-knowing, all powerful God.
AJJ sang “My god thinks my jokes are funny.” Why wouldn’t he? Is God UPTIGHT? Is he too dull to have a sense of humor – or recognize when something is provocative but innocuous? Not a chance.
God’s benevolent. And a benevolent God doesn’t punish jokes or condemn his children to eternal suffering. And he certainly doesn’t condemn THIS CHILD.
Prices and availability of original paintings, giclées, and custom prints are available upon request. Some prints are available for purchase in the webstore. Check my calendar to see if I’m coming to your area anytime soon. Follow me on Instagram or TikTok for more regular updates (and nonsense). Subscribe to my newsletter if you want to get an email every month or so (whenever I finish a new painting).
All I Really Need to Know I Learned from a Drunk 14 Year-Old at the Mall | 7-2-2026 | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas | 48 x 30 in
These days, I’m mostly happy, most of the time. But – conceptually – misery, self-loathing, and apathy are still MY FAVORITE. Maybe that’s because I spent so much of my life soaking in despair, that it just feels safe to me. Comfortable.
In conversations about compelling lyrics, I often cite a song by The Murderburgers that opens with: “I’m an ugly piece of shit with a fucked up face and broken teeth and no place to go” and closes with “I’m trying to find a way out that doesn’t involve tying a noose and kicking a chair.”
I was at a show once with a really terrible band – the kind that’s embarrassing enough to want to lead the audience in a call-and-response sorta chant. Their specific chant was particularly embarrassing: “WE DON’T GIVE A FUCK.” My eyes couldn’t have rolled any harder. Because NO ONE loves sentiments like “I don’t give a fuck,” “I don’t care about nothin’,” and “NOTHING MATTERS” more than I do – but only with tongue planted firmly in cheek. Because that shit’s not real. It’s armor against hurt. Your friend can’t let you down if you never really considered him a friend. Rejection doesn’t hurt if you don’t give a shit about the girl rejecting you.
I’d like to think I’ve become pretty good about stepping back and getting myself to a more reasonable place (emotionally), but so often my kneejerk reaction to hurt is:
I don’t need anyone.
I don’t need anything.
I don’t EVEN CARE.
I journaled those exact words once when my girlfriend and I weren’t getting along. It didn’t take me long to realize that I sounded like a fucking child. Like the kind of wounded idiot 14 year-old I’d imagine might get drunk at a mall.
There’s a song by House Boat that closes with the lyric, “If it seems like I don’t care – well, I care a lot. I’ve never, ever cared this much before.”
That admission’s stuck with me. It’s one thing to acknowledge your hurt and pain. It’s another to expressly acknowledge that your hurt and pain only exist because you care so deeply.
Like Bats’ lyrics are so delightfully childish and spiteful that virtually all of them sound like a drunk 14 year-old at the mall – with one notable exception: “caring about nothing is nothing to be proud of.”
Later this afternoon, I’ll set up for my Chicago show this weekend. In August, I’ve got two shows in Minneapolis and two in Pennsylvania. For more details and more upcoming shows, check the Events page.
It took me a minute to get this painting photographed so I’ve ALREADY GOT ANOTHER just about ready to go. Keep an eye out for it next week. I’m really excited about everything I’ve made this year and how well everything’s going. Follow me on social media if you want more regular, more specific updates.
Use the contact form if you’ve got questions about pricing or availability of originals or prints.
D.L.A.T.Y.Y.C.K.Y.Y.T.C. | 5-24-2026 | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas | 24 x 30 in
I thought I’d be living at Tranquil Shores for at least another two months but when I went into the clinical office that morning, I found out I only had ten days before my discharge.
I felt shattered. Caught completely off-guard. I walked back to the residential property alone and remembered a conversation I’d had with my sister 18 months earlier.
I’d just been released from the hospital, following an attempted overdose. “You can’t kill yourself, Sam. That’s so selfish,” she told me.
Fuck you, I thought. “You know what’s really selfish, Racey? Expecting me to endure this kind of pain every day – to keep on with this shitty, empty life – devoid of any happiness whatsoever – so that you can call me on the phone two or three times a year.”
You wouldn’t be reading this right now if my life hadn’t EVENTUALLY IMPROVED, but – back then – my life hurt. Every day was painful. I felt isolated, hopelessly addicted to heroin, and lost. I could see no way out. It didn’t have to be that way, but I didn’t yet have the emotional tools I needed to do anything about it.
While I managed to turn my life around, some people suffer for decades on end. And as bitter and angry as I was when Racey said that to me, I’m still not sure we owe it to anyone else to stay stuck in a life like that.
That said – unless you’re in chronic pain or suffering from debilitating, UNABATING mental illness, you probably shouldn’t kill yourself. Not unless you’ve exhausted ALL other options. Because – as dark and miserable as life can be (and BELIEVE ME, I KNOW), it can also be pretty great.
If you’re truly ready to die, truly ready to give up on everything, then you’ve got nothing left to lose. So – before you kill yourself – lose it. Blow up your life before ending it. Choose uncertainty over unhappiness. Suicide is usually the consequence of feeling trapped. But you’re not trapped.
End the relationship. Quit your job. Break the lease. Disconnect your phone. Move across the country. Do whatever it takes to get out of your rut.
In my admittedly limited experience, when I make choices that demonstrate love (for myself and for others), things have a way of working out.
If all of this sounds impossible, I assure you: it’s easier than you think. If it sounds terrifying, do it anyway.
Worst case scenario: you were right, nothing gets better, and suicide is still an option.
DON’T LET ANYONE TELL YOU OTHERWISE.
But it’s not a very good option.
Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
This painting is what I call an UPCYCLE. I took the concept from one of my very early paintings and used it for this new one. The one I’m working on now is gonna be another one.
ON A RELATED NOTE, I’ve got three fairly recent paintings that I decided weren’t quite good enough. They were CLOSE but not quite. In the past, I believed in leaving each painting as a snapshot of where I was at right when I made it. Fuck that. I don’t wanna hang or sell something I’m not 100% proud of and happy with. So I went back to work on those three paintings and now I’m even more excited about them than I was when they were brand new.
Poor Forever | 10/12/25* | acrylic on canvas | 36x36"
Initially painted from August 31 to October 12, 2025, in Durham, NC; Augusta and Savannah, GA; and Oviedo, Largo, St Petersburg, and Lakeland, FL. Revisions / more painting in May 2026, in Louisville, KY.
Read about it in my blog entry for November 19, 2025.
Buy a signed, limited-edition 12x12" print in the webstore.
You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (and Other Lies)
8-30-2025* | 36 x 48 in | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas
Painted in Tampa, St Petersburg, and Bradenton, FL; Savannah, GA; Columbia, SC; and Greensboro, NC, between June 27 and August 30, 2025. Additional text added in Tampa, FL and Spartanburg, SC on November 4 and 18, 2025. Major revisions on May 13, 2026.
Read its statement in the blog entry for November 24, 2025.
Signed limited-edition 16x12” prints may be available for purchase in the webstore.
Availability and prices of original paintings, giclées, and custom prints upon request.
The Boy Nobody Wanted Wins the Super Bowl
7-26-2024* | 36 x 36 in | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas
Originally started and "finished" in Sarasota, FL between July 7 and 26, 2024. "Finished" again in 2026 in Durham, NC on May 13 and AGAIN in Monroe, MI on June 19.
Read its statement in the blog entry for July 31, 2024.
Signed limited-edition 12x12” prints may be available for purchase in the webstore.
Availability and prices of original paintings, giclées, and custom prints upon request.
DLATYYCKYYTC is so titled as a nod to IYDKMRNIGE. I can rattle off either acronym LIKE IT’S NOTHIN’. (Yes, I’ve practiced).
Bad People | 5/14/26 | acrylic paint, staples, and safety pins on the charred remains of a painting destroyed by fire | 24 x 30 in
My RV, filled with art, burnt down in February. A friend joked: “HOW MUCH PERSONAL LORE CAN ONE PERSON DEVELOP?”
The fire was devastating but bad stuff happens to me a lot, so I’m WELL-TRAINED for this sorta thing. I’ve got TRAUMA EXPERIENCE.
Bad People is painted over the charred remains of Whole Wide World.
I haven’t always come out on top and sometimes it’s taken me years to recover, but the fire didn’t beat me. I was back on the road doing art shows that week.
In March, I was invited to some art fairs that were still 7 months away and given the option to pay the full registration cost or just a deposit. I’d have preferred to just pay in full and be done with it but I was scared.
WHO KNOWS IF I’LL EVEN MAKE IT THAT FAR? Maybe I won’t be making art by then. Maybe I’ll have lost everything. Maybe my life will be some kind of fucked up I can’t even predict.
I don’t really think that – I’m doing well lately and I feel SOLID AS FUCK. But it also feels a little myopic(?) to ignore my history. To not acknowledge it makes me feel self-conscious – like I’m failing to recognize what EVERYONE ELSE IS PROBABLY THINKING: “This won’t last. Sam can’t keep it together.”
Growing up, I never made it more than three years at one school. Same (to this day) with homes. And I’ve never held a job for even three months. (NOT THAT I WANT ONE).
I don’t even like to mention it anymore because I’m tired of it being such a big part of my identity but – until now – I’d never even made it two years off heroin (or fentanyl).
I’m extremely bright, extremely competent, and extremely UNSTABLE.
I could do ANYTHING – except for that instability. It’s made me kind of a fucking loser. At least at times. My life’s a lot of very impressive accomplishments and a lot of really pathetic, wasted years.
I’m self-absorbed. I think I’m sorta naturally inconsiderate. I’m prone to arrogance and kinda entitled. But I’m also sensitive, empathetic. I think I usually do the right thing, even if it’s not always my first instinct.
I don’t think I’m a bad person but does anyone really? I do think I’m sometimes bad at being a person. But I’m getting better. I’m trying anyway.
Before I transformed Wide World into Bad People, I made an entirely new painting (Fruit of the Poisonous Me) all about my experience of the fire.
I’d initially planned to do an entire series of new work on the charred remains of the paintings I lost in the fire. After processing everything through Fruit though – and now having done Bad People – I’m feeling like I’m sort of “over the fire” and ready to just move on. I still have those damaged paintings in storage though; maybe I’ll like the idea again by the time I get back to Florida. TIME WILL TELL.
Bad People sold on May 17, 2026. I’ve made prints but likely won’t add them to the webstore because I’m not sure I want the webstore to exist anymore. If you’d like one, your best bet is to COME FIND ME.
NOTHING MATTRESS | 4/26/26 | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas | 24 x 12 in
Following Luckiest and Fruit, I was happy to paint something that would mostly just be fun. I’d recently learned that the ivermectin people ate for covid was a paste that often came in flavors for horses. So– in the face of death– Americans consumed APPLE-FLAVORED HORSE PASTE, in the hope thatthat could save them. This delighted me endlessly but, like most things by which I’m thoroughly amused, it gets very sad if you think about it too much. Yes, it’s stupid but also bleak.
BUT THAT’S NOT HOW I CHOOSE TO THINK ABOUT IT.
As I wrote on the canvas: LET THEM EAT CAKE APPLE-FLAVORED HORSE PASTE.
That’s where the painting started. But then Amanda had to go and have a fucking aneurysm. Actually three (but only one that ruptured). Suddenly, one of my very best friends was quite possibly going to die.
After a morning of updates and crying, I decided I needed to keep busy. It wasn’t long before I had a thought that felt really cold:
It’s fine. Amanda can die. NOTHING MATTERS.
As I reasoned in the moment: for whom do I want Amanda to live? Maybe wanting her to survive is just me being selfish. Surviving the aneurysm could mean a life of diminished brain function, frustration, and confusion. Death, on the other hand, is clean. Once she’s dead, all issues are null and void. She’s fine. Maybe moreso than anyone still living.
Death is painful for those left behind, but we all die eventually and “if it doesn’t matter now, then it never really did.” So what’s that pain worth?
When I got back to the painting, in between “it’s okay I stole this title” and “NOTHING MATTRESS,” I wrote “Panda’s brains are broken.” But then:
It just occurred to me: by the time this painting is done, I might have to replace “brains are broken” with “DEAD.”
Even for me, that’s dark. And despite my earlier, colder assessment, it was deeply upsetting. I can intellectually reason my way to nihilism but that’s a coping mechanism. As I’d journaled on that first day:
I really, really want her to be okay. I want to talk to her and laugh about how scared I was.
I got to do that about a week later and I’m happy to report that – at least as of today – Amanda is still alive and doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances. We’re optimistic about a full (or near full) recovery.
Maybe none of our pain or our lives are objectively worth anything. Maybe they don’t matter.
But they matter to me.
I guess I just love the taste of nihilism-flavored horse paste.
AS NOTED, I stole this title. “Nothing Mattress” was a really cool comic and zine by Brian Connolly. When I found out other people were stealing “nothing mattress” (knowingly or otherwise) for other projects, I decided it was fair game. Especially since (1) NOTHING MATTERS and (2) I could use this statement as a corrective to let the world know that – regardless of where you first saw it – CREDIT GOES TO BRIAN. Or at least I think it does. I don’t know him but he was certainly the first to publicize the phrase at all. Either way, you should check out NOTHING MATTRESS by Brian Connolly.
It was suggested to me that I was the right person to launch a GoFundMe for Amanda and it was HARD FOR ME TO ARGUE OTHERWISE, so that’s what I did. At the time of this update, the campaign is still running. Make a donation or share it if you’re so inclined.
Oh – and if you buy one of these prints, write “Amanda” in the notes and I’ll donate the proceeds (in your name) to the fundraiser. For availability of the original painting or canvas giclées, send a message.
Fruit of the Poisonous Me | 13 April 2026 | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas | 40 x 60 in
January started well enough and then the ice storm canceled three events I’d booked in North Carolina. My next show was back in Florida. “Why’d I even leave?”
I decided to visit my brother in Durham.
February 1st – the night it happened, I was downstairs, gathering my things to go up to the guest room for the night. I heard an engine turning over.
“That sounds too close to the house to be a neighbor… Is someone trying to hotwire my bus?,” I thought.
I went to the window and saw the flames. I ran into the snow barefoot only to find the doors of the bus locked. I ran back in to grab my keys and shout to my sleeping brother, “MAX! I need the fire extinguisher now!”
One of my first thoughts was that Max and his wife were gonna be upset with me for this. I considered not even waking Max or asking for the fire extinguisher. But I was also hopeful that the fire could be contained and this might not wreck my entire life. Maybe I could even put it out in time to play it off like no big deal and that I was only asking for the extinguisher out of an abundance of caution.
That was not the case.
journal: Tuesday, February 3
The loss of my bus (my home) and my art are so devastating that it’s been way too easy for me to lose sight of…
HOW DEVASTATING THE LOSS OF EVERYTHING ELSE IS TOO.
Picking through the charred remains for anything that can be salvaged… – forget about the cost of replacing the bus or the fact that the art can’t be replaced. Virtually everything else I own… – it’s just death by a thousand cuts. I’m gonna be POOR FOREVER.
The fire may not have been my fault, but it’s all FRUIT OF THE POISONOUS TREE (me).
Well there’s the title and concept for a painting if ever there was one.
I’m gonna be fucking fine (or as “fine” as I’ve ever been). I get that. Even as I’m writing this all out. It’s just a low moment. But – fuck – this is all so much and it’s all so hard.
I had a thought that amused me. I played with the idea of adding it to the incinerated fragments of (what had once been) one of my paintings.
Have you ever fantasized about your home burning down, just to get a totally fresh start?
I USED TO.
Moments of bitter levity aside, I was overwhelmed. Everyone told me to take a minute. Collect myself. Not stress about pulling everything together in time to make it to the next show. I could miss one weekend they told me.
Nope.
I left my ashpile of a bus in NC and rented a van to get to Florida in time for the Downtown Sarasota Festival of the Arts. Late that night, a message popped up on the dash.
DRIVER ALERT WARNING REST SUGGESTED
I laughed to myself. “If I won’t take this advice from my loved ones, I’m certainly not taking it FROM A RENTED CARGO VAN.”
The concept of “pride”… I’m not a fan. There’s not much I’m proud of. But looking across my booth that weekend, I was kind of amazed. Yeah, my ProPanels smelled like burnt trash and Motivation and Luckiest Little Shit were smoke-damaged but fuck me if this set-up didn’t still look impressive. I snapped a photo to share online and captioned it:
If anyone was wondering WHETHER THAT FIRE COULD EAT MY DICK OR NOT – 4 days later, I’m 4 states away, doing the art festival I had booked AS PLANNED
I’m not proud of my clean time. I’m fucking forty. It’s embarrassing that I wasted so many years. I’m only sort of proud of my achievements within the scope of my art career. If I’d not been on drugs forever, I’d have done these things so much sooner. I’d be so much further by now.
But I was proud of this. To experience such loss and not let it slow me at all – it made me feel pretty resilient.
That said, I wondered how people online would respond to the news of the fire. How they’d react to what I was writing and saying about it on social media.
“Probably they’ll just think I’m an idiot, a loser, and that this is more of the same for me.”
“And they’ll probably think this is going to push me to start shooting up again.”
Oh… shit… “This is the first time since the fire that the concept of drugs has even crawled across my brain.”
That wouldn’t have been the case at any other point. Historically, the pattern’s been: (1) bad thing happens, (2) “I need to shoot up right now.”
I wouldn’t say I’m proud that I didn’t immediately fall apart and want to use, but I am pleased by it. That it was never even under consideration is strong evidence of my progress.
A few weeks later, I was driving, listening to the miserable, self-loathing songs that light up my little punk rock heart and a thought occurred to me: “I love this as much as I ever have, but do I still relate to it? Do these lyrics still describe how I feel?”
It was a major revelation. “Holy shit. For the first time in my life – I don’t think I hate myself anymore.”
“I think I actually even like myself. I like what I do. I like how I behave. And I really like what I make.” (Actually, I love what I make).
But FIRE ASIDE, things were going well. “Do I just feel good right now? Maybe my response to the fire was a fluke. If something else goes wrong, I might very quickly remember all the excellent and valid reasons to hate myself.”
I got an answer within minutes. Another driver flagged me down. Said the back corner of my new RV scuffed their car.
My license had just been canceled over some stupid paperwork shit from ten years ago. I’d already enlisted a lawyer to help sort it out but – on that day – I could not have cops show up. I could not have this going through my insurance. I was gonna have to pay these people.
I got the number a week or so later. They wanted $4,600.
I didn’t even know if I’d actually caused any damage, but I couldn’t take any chances. I paid the $4,600. It fucking STUNG.
But it didn’t make me hate myself. Almost the opposite? Even following THE TREMENDOUS HIT of the fire, I could afford this one too. That meant something.
I didn’t tell too many people about the settlement I’d paid. I was embarrassed even though I felt like the situation wasn’t my fault. Because it wasn’t random chance. A seed had been planted ten years ago when – detoxing from heroin – I’d taken too much Xanax, blacked out, and gotten charged with THREE SIMULTANEOUS DUIs. Now, that seed had BLOSSOMED into more poisonous fruit.
Journaling, I realized: I’ve always been very good at blaming myself (in a very childish, mostly meaningless sorta way) for anything bad that happened, but I don’t know that I was ever really able to accept responsibility. A lot of the most destructive “fires” in my life were more genuinely my fault than I’ve previously understood. And they shared a common spark – a subconscious core belief that the rules don’t apply to me, so I should be exempt from consequences.
I’ve had an Adderall prescription since I was a kid, but I was all over the country in 2014 and unable to refill it for a few months. When I dropped Abby off at rehab and she offered me her bottle of Adderall, it felt serendipitous.
Until they charged me with a felony for it.
A more reasonable person might have thought “it’s illegal for me to accept this.” I thought, “this is reasonable, I don’t care that it’s technically illegal.”
Sort of like how I continued to drive when my license was cancelled.
It shouldn’t have been canceled, so I shouldn’t have to stop driving – right?
I still don’t “respect” the law but I’m too old to think I can continue to break it and never suffer the consequences. Shit doesn’t work that way.
Maybe I’m not inherently (and irrevocably) poisonous. Maybe I just need to accept that I can’t always get special treatment. And maybe if I learn to accept responsibility when I break a rule, I’ll stop feeling like I’m to blame for the fires that weren’t my fault.
Or maybe not. I DON’T KNOW. This shit just happened. These thoughts are all FRESH FRUIT.
I’ve got upcoming shows in Myrtle Beach, Waynesville (NC), Atlanta, Raleigh, Roanoke, Crestwood (KY), Michigan (West Bloomfield, Cheboygan, and Ludington), St Louis, Chicago, Pittsburgh, and The Hamptons. At least one new show is usually added to the calendar each week, which you can check for more details.
I don’t think I’m going to use this site as a blog anymore. For more regular updates, follow me on Instagram or TikTok.
