Fruit of the Poisonous Me

April 16, 2026

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.

LET’S SEE HOW THEY DO AT MARKET.

12×16-inch prints of “Fruit” are now available in the webstore.

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.

All the Time Lost

March 11, 2026

“All the Time Lost.” 6/8/25. acrylics and pigment ink on clock face. 28 inch diameter.

In early 2025, I’d been trying to embrace the notion that just because I can’t yet see that things are as they should be – that doesn’t mean they aren’t (or that they won’t be). It just means I can’t see it yet.

As summer crept up, I was not feeling so optimistic. I was thinking a lot about how I’d essentially lost all of my thirties to relapse. How even if my career was going well, it was not going anywhere near as well as it would be if I’d been at it all along.

I was thinking about how back in Round One,1 I was grateful for all of the tragedy and trauma in my life, grateful for my addiction and the time I’d lost to drugs — because all of that led me to art and a life that I enjoyed.

AND I WAS THINKING ABOUT THAT THING WE DON’T LIKE TO TALK ABOUT. And how it’s super fucking hard to be grateful for that. Because what did I get out of it? Eight years of relapse? Hurt, fear, distrust, resentment, and [insert OTHER BAD THINGS here]?

Looking back at my records, I’m kind of blown away by how well I did in those early months (and how quickly I started to take it for granted). The relapse may have cost me momentum, but wasn’t it still a minor miracle that I was able to pick back up as quickly as I did?

 It didn’t feel that way. I was making money, but – even when I’m doing well – if I’m not hitting new benchmarks of success, I start to feel like I’m spinning my wheels. I crave constant progress.

I’d been commissioned to paint A CLOCK, so time was very much on my mind. I titled my clock “ALL THE TIME LOST” and journaled my pessimism into it.

Not everything needs a positive spin. Some things are JUST BAD. If you wanna believe there’s a lesson in everything – sure. But those lessons are not always worth their cost.

“Everything works out in the end. If it hasn’t worked out, it isn’t the end.”

Oh yeah? Works out for who? Innocent people spend decades in prison. Some people DIE YOUNG. Is death an example of shit “working out?” We’ve all got main character syndrome. Someone else’s death isn’t our life lesson.

“Everything will be okay in the end.”

The end is death. If everything is “okay” when you die, it just means “nothing matters when you’re dead.” And “if it doesn’t matter now, then it never really did.”2

It was totally obnoxious but I wound up in the same place I always do:

Any logical conversation about meaning ends at nihilism. So – UGGGGGHHHH – we’ve gotta make our own meaning and make the most of the time we still have left. As ANNOYING AS THAT IS. (‘Cause “for better or worse, someday this will all be over”).3

That was about as positive a conclusion as I could get to. I journaled some more, thinking about the kinds of art walks and street markets I’d been selling my prints at. I was making job money but not runaway success money.

Everything has an opportunity cost. Am I wasting time on “sustenance money” at the expense of higher risk, lower immediate-return efforts that could pay off bigger later? Am I inadvertently branding myself as a street-level artist when I wanna be in high-end galleries? I’ve only been clean 14 months. Am I impatient? How often should I be hitting major achievements?

And BECAUSE THEY’RE NEVER FAR FROM MY MIND…

Signed, limited-edition “classroom” sized clocks are available for purchase in the webstore.

As for girls, the current dearth of FRESH CANDIDATES actually has me reconsidering investing my time and energy into saving/repairing one that’s still broken. 

I’m comfortable for now. I miss having a partner. If the rest of my life looked just like this but with a partner, I could be happy with that. But I’d like more.

By sometime in the fall, I had an epiphany: I was happier than I’d ever been. It occurred me that this was true even without a girlfriend. It had barely been a year since I’d been seeing someone but it was still the longest I’d ever gone. Was it possible my happiness was at least in part because I didn’t have a girlfriend?

I honestly can’t say but I do know it’s because (contrary to what I’d written) I did not go back to the girl I knew to be broken. And I didn’t go out with any other girls I met that weren’t emotionally where I needed them to be.

In the past, the moment I met a pretty girl that liked me, I was in. It didn’t matter if she was fucked up. I probably even liked it if she was a little fucked up. That was no longer true. I want someone who is both inspiring to and inspired by me. Someone who wants me but doesn’t need me. 

I’m not gonna pretend that the song title “(Holy Shit (I Can’t Believe)) I Still Don’t Have a Girlfriend”4 doesn’t regularly pop into my head. But lately I am hitting new benchmarks of success. AND I’M SO FUCKING BUSY EVERY DAY. Things are going really well and I don’t have the TIME to stress girls all that much.

It’ll WORK OUT when it’s supposed to.5

  1. “Round One” is what I call 2013-2015 – the three years I was making art before I relapsed and stopped for almost 9 years. ↩︎
  2. That’s a lyric from “The Politics of Starving” by Against Me! ↩︎
  3. Another lyric – from “My Staple Diet Of Rice, Vitamins, Alcohol, and Painkillers” by The Murderburgers. ↩︎
  4. A song by The Steinways. ↩︎
  5. I finished this painting/clock in June 2025 but wrote this statement for it in January 2026. ↩︎

Ever since the fire that burned down my bus/home, I’ve been hemorrhaging money. Luckily, I’ve also been making a lot of money. After getting ProPanels the last week of December, I started applying to “higher tier” events, like juried art festivals. I’ve been getting into most of them and it’s going well so far. This week though, I’ve got decisions coming in for six of them so CROSS YOUR FINGERS FOR ME. This week has the potential to make me feel like THE UNDISPUTED CHAMPION or to majorly bum me the fuck out. That said, I applied with a booth photo I took of my very first set-up (before I knew what I was doing) so… my future applications will be better. (That’s what I’ll tell myself anyway if things don’t go my way this week).

I don’t really use this “blog” for anything but adding art to the website and writing whatever’s on my mind right when I do that. If you want near-daily updates from me, I post all the time on TikTok, Instagram, and Facebook. There’s a bunch of stuff on there from the last month about THE FIRE, the new RV, the painting I’ve been working on for the last month, and lots of videos in which you can see how clever I think I am.

And check out the Events page. I’ve got stuff on there right now for the Carolinas, Atlanta, Kentucky, St Louis, Chicago, and I’ll add more as they’re confirmed.

Here are the three songs I mentioned:

(this is the best one)

I Wish I Were Dead

February 21, 2026

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].

Just Like You Wanted

January 31, 2026

As I continue to be TRAPPED BY WINTER, here’s another older piece for the historical archives that never made it online…

“Just Like You Wanted” | 8/11/14 | alcohol and pigment inks on watercolor paper | 7×5″

This drawing is part of a series that also includes “Bad Things Happen (to Kids That Fuck),” “I Finally Understand All Those Straight Edge Songs on the Radio!,” and “I Work Hard for the Money.”

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.

Blow Bubbles for Fun! (Not Strangers for Drug Money) 2.0

January 30, 2026

“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.”

8×6-inch prints are now available for purchase. Shoot me a message to find out if the original is still available.

Uncertainty over Unhappiness

“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.

The Luckiest Little Shit (in the World)

January 15, 2026

“The Luckiest Little Shit (in the World)” | 1/4/2026 | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas | 40 x 30 in

If there’s a central THESIS to my body of work, it’s that life can be a FUCKING DRAG but we’ve gotta try our best all the same.1 

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 faces in ridiculous colors – and then I get paid 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.

This is, of course, not solely a consequence of my own brilliance. I work seven days a week to ensure my future as the world’s MOST HIGHLY REGARDED ARTIST, but it’s not lost on me that what I do is not an option for everyone. It’s such a bizarre confluence of circumstances, attributes, inclinations, luck (good and bad) that make my life possible.

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.

Statement is done. Tap here to read the personal updates that will soon embarrass me.
  1. 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. ↩︎
  2. The song I’m referencing is “Countin’ Cards” by Escape from the Zoo: ↩︎
  3. Nope – it’s in the statement for “All the Time Lost,” which I’ve not yet published online. ↩︎

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