Just a quick heads up: I discovered an issue with the contact page. If you’ve tried to contact me recently, I’m guessing it didn’t work. Anyway, it’s resolved now so – if you still need to reach me – NOW YOU CAN.
And SO LONG AS I’M POSTING AN UPDATE, I’ll mention that I now hate all social media EXCEPT FOR TIKTOK. I’ve been making a new video for it almost every single day for the last month, so if you wanna keep up with me, that’s now the best place to do so. Instagram and especially Facebook can fuck off forever. (DON’T GET ME STARTED).
I’ve been hard at work on a BRAND NEW PAINTING so I’ll update the blog when that’s finished or when I next write up a statement for one of the pieces that’s still missing one. In the meantime, like I said, FOLLOW ME ON TIKTOK. TIKTOK IS THE FUTURE. TIKTOK IS LIFE. ALL HAIL TIKTOK.
Oh – and today was my birthday. So go buy me/you a present in the print shop!
“”Christian Love (The Grace of a Mountain Goat)” 10/22/24. Pigment and alcohol inks. 8½x11″.
I stumbled across Proverbs 5:19 on the internet today. From the New American Standard Bible:
Like a loving doe and a graceful mountain goat, let her breasts satisfy you at all times; be exhilarated always with her love.
Some of the other translations aren’t quite as ridiculous but where’s the fun in that? My first reaction was only (ASSUMING MY READING OF THIS IS CORRECT): the Bible is much hornier than I realized! (Or at least remembered). I haven’t bothered to read the passages surrounding this for additional context, but it would seem to be about nothing more than ENJOYING BREASTS. If that’s not jarring enough, the fact that a line is somehow drawn to that from the grace of (of all things) a MOUNTAIN GOAT. …I can’t be the only one that finds this absurd, curious, and remarkably amusing.
My first draft didn’t have a girl’s head and the boobs were just slapped on the side of the goat’s body but, I figured, if THE BIBLE is gonna get horny with it, I might as well too. It’s much creepier this way!
And speaking of horny and creepy, I initially wanted to title this “Christian Girls” but… that felt a little too horny even for me. Or rather, it felt too creepy for me at my age.
When I use the word “girls,” I’m talking about women approximately my own age. Maybe because I’m stuck in perpetual adolescence as a consequence of losing so many years to addiction, but the word “women” just feels strange to me. I feel awkward saying it. I’m not as uncomfortable with it as I am with the word “men,” which I really hate but – I’m at an age now where I’m gonna have to get used to it. Referring to my peers as “kids” worked a decade ago. Referring to my dates as “girls” worked a decade ago. But, today, someone might get the wrong idea, especially about “girls.”
Hey – what do you know? Seeing as all I’m presenting in this entry is a drawing that’s AS DUMB AS THEY GET, I was afraid I was gonna disappoint anyone who came here hoping for another overwrought story of mental illness and poor decisions but – CHECK ME OUT – I managed to get there all the same!
One last note (in case it doesn’t go without saying) “like, really cool tits” is not the way I talk (unless I’m trying to be funny). That’s me poking fun at the way God talks. (He wrote the Old Testament/Torah/Tawrat, right?)
“Let her breasts satisfy you at all times” – HILARIOUS!
Having said all of that, it’d be dishonest to not acknowledge that “there’s at least a grain of truth in every joke.” I mean, who wouldn’t go for a girl with the grace of a mountain goat and REALLY COOL TITS?
I’m only human. I’m just as God made me.
If you’d like to support me (even half as much as I’d like you to support me!) prints of “Christian Love (The Grace of a Mountain Goat)” are on sale now in the webstore. I mean, really you should probably buy one of my other prints but – hey – THE HEART WANTS WHAT IT WANTS and I won’t judge you. Thank you (as always) for your time and attention. Even for nonsense like this.
Revisiting “Adventures Per Minute,” I felt compelled to write an addendum because I don’t love the way that it ends. After writing much of it though, I realized that these were words I’ve had in my head for years, as I continually postponed writing my statement for “Things You Can’t Come Back From.” Rather than simply tack on to a ten year-old blog entry though, I decided to give this its own space. Here it is.
APM addendum
I’m very tempted to remove (or at least change) these last two paragraphs [which are about a sexual experience involving some very aggressive role-playing]. That feels dishonest though. It would be disingenuous. Because I don’t actually think there’s anything wrong with them; I’m just afraid of how they might influence strangers’ perception of me. And I shouldn’t let that corrupt or influence my art.
I would never actually sexually assault or hurt someone, nor would I get off on it. It would make me physically sick. There’s a difference between playing pretend and reality.
I’ve always felt confident that my willingness to share all the darkest, most private parts of my self (through my art and writing) would be all the evidence anyone would need to know exactly what kind of person I am. Sometimes emotionally erratic, occasionally petty or spiteful but – above all – deeply sensitive, empathetic, and caring. Vulnerable to depression and hopelessness, but – just as often – filled with joy and light, ridiculously silly, generally optimistic, and too trusting for my own good.
If there are people in the world who want to believe otherwise about me, that’s their business – not mine – and I can’t let my fear paralyze me. Not anymore. I already lost nearly eight years of my life to that. It’s time to be brave and that means living (as I did back when I made “Adeventures Per Minute”) with my whole truth. Sharing everything, hiding nothing. That’s what made my work powerful (and popular) in the first place – even if it did eventually hurt me.
As mentioned up top, it occurs to me that much of what I just wrote is part of what I’ve been putting off as I continue delaying the writing of my statement for “Things You Can’t Come Back From.” It’s been six months now since I’ve been clean and making art again, and I’m starting to feel a little steadier. I recently wrote the statement for “Sorry for Overdosing in Your Bathroom” (another one I’d been putting off for similar reasons). But “Things You Can’t” is on a whole other level. That painting is about the single most traumatic episode of my life. I’m committed to finally writing its statement soon. Absolutely before the year’s end. (I will tell the whole story). In any case, I really only mention this (1) as explanation for why this addendum kind of dances around something without fully addressing it; and (2) for the very trivial reason of: Please don’t be annoyed with me if some of what you’ve just read gets repeated, whenever I do write/publish the blog entry for “Things You Can’t.”
In closing, a quick acknowledgment: I want to thank everyone who’s stuck with me. Not only through the years of relapse and inactivity, but through that life-shattering event in 2015. I won’t even try to describe the nightmare of that experience; just know that your trust in me and your continued support means more than I could ever put into words. I did not get it from everyone. Without you, there’s not the slightest chance that I would still be breathing today.
“Sorry For Overdosing in Your Bathroom” 3/8/19. Acrylic paint. 20×20″.
Wallis and I both wanted to get clean. To get myself through the worst of the withdrawals, I took a fair bit [okay, a SHIT TON] of Xanax to keep myself as close to unconscious as possible. The next morning I woke up and Wallis was gone. She’d decided to go for inpatient detox but I was too out of it for her to communicate that to me. Being the loving and thoughtful person that she is, she’d arranged for a friend of ours (Whitney) to be there when I finally came to, to explain everything to me. But when I first regained consciousness, I was so out of it that I thought Whitney was Wallis. For a while. It really had to be explained to me. Several times.
When Whitney did finally manage to get through to my drug-addled brain, I flipped out. I felt totally abandoned and upset and hopeless and – honestly, it doesn’t really matter. I was so fucked up on Xanax that I wasn’t myself anyway.
For those that don’t have experience overdosing on Xanax, it’s not the kind of drug that will kill you on its own. So you can take dozens of pills but – unless you introduce alcohol or another drug into the mix – you’re not going to die. At insanely high doses though, you will begin to behave like a RAGING lunatic. (Particular emphasis on “raging”).
What I did next is unlike anything I’d ever before done in my life. I took a knife and slashed through all of my paintings. And my biggest painting – the mammoth 12×8-foot piece hanging across the entirety of the living room wall – well, I set that one on fire. And then for good measure, I took our 50-inch TV and threw it through the closed living room window into the front yard. So Whitney now had glass and fire and a lunatic to contend with. Well, glass and fire; I jumped on my motorcycle and sped off.
Darting all over town in my drug-addled haze, it’s a miracle I didn’t crash that bike and lose a limb (or worse). I had a SHOPPING LIST to quietly, painlessly end my life. An overdose quantity of heroin should get the job done on its own; added to all the Xanax in my system would make it a sure thing. And just for good measure, I’d also chug as much alcohol as I could stomach (just before shooting up – and in the time before I lost consciousness). Having thrown all my syringes away in preparation for the detox/getting clean, I’d also need to find one of those.
Once I had all of my supplies, I needed someplace that I could actually do this. My house likely had a police presence following the fire and chaos. Or – at the very least – a Whitney. I needed somewhere that no one would try to stop me or find me soon enough afterward that my life could be saved. Where does that leave? You can’t go to a friends’ house. They’re not going to let you overdose and die. You can’t go really anyplace public; someone’s liable to see you and call 911.
Sun-Ray Cinema. Any other business, I’d be found, but Sun-Ray had a screening room with an entrance right by their front door. I could slip in without anyone even realizing I’d entered the building. And – in the back of that screening room – a bathroom that had only recently been renovated. This meant none of the customers even knew it was there. The only way anyone would find me in time is if an employee just happened to decide to use it in the short window that it would take me to do my shot and stop breathing. How many people were even on staff that day? Two? Three? And they’d almost certainly use the bathrooms in the main lobby or theater.
As recently as a few months prior, I’d considered Sun-Ray’s owner and proprietor one of my best friends. We’d had a falling out but – even still – I felt guilty pulling him, his wife/Sun-Ray partner, and their staff (some of whom I also considered friends) into my death. But it was the only viable option I could think of.
I got to the theater and snuck inside without issue. Once in the bathroom, I realized that my plan wasn’t quite as solid as I’d thought. The bathroom, of course, had a light. But unlike the lights in the main bathrooms, this one was kept off unless someone was using it. Even with the door shut, in the dark hall, it was clear when the light in the bathroom was on. Still, it was rare for anyone to come back there at all. It was in a hallway behind a curtain in the back of the screening room. The only other thing off the hall was a small office that only needed to be accessed briefly when a movie was set to begin. I hoped that the next showing was still a ways off or that – even if it weren’t – that no one would think anything of the bathroom light being left on.
I gulped down as much alcohol as I could stand. (Turns out it was a Sunday and the liquor stores were closed, so I’d had to settle for the highest ABV thing I could find: a bottle of wine). Even still, with the amount of Xanax in my system, I figured even wine should be enough to kill me. (Alcohol and Xanax are a surprisingly lethal combination). Next, I prepped my shot with enough heroin (actually, fentanyl) to kill god-knows-how-many regular people (and still ten times even my regular dose). I found a vein and pushed the plunger down the barrel. I picked the bottle back up and started chugging as the dope made its way through my bloodstream.
It was only a matter of seconds before I’d lose consciousness and it seemed no one had noticed the light being on yet. Certainly no one had knocked. I was set. Even if someone came along now, it was doubtful they’d act with any sense of urgency. By the time they realized the door was locked from the inside, found the key, and come back, I’d be dead.
It was three or four days later when I woke up in the hospital with no memory of what had happened after I’d injected in the Sun-Ray bathroom. (To this day, I don’t know). In any case, it must be that I didn’t write a suicide note, because there was no psychiatric hold on me. I was treated like just another accidental overdose patient. As soon as I was able to stand, they were processing my discharge. I made some phone calls from the hospital phone. Wallis, Whitney – and I think Tim and Shana at Sun-Ray. I don’t really remember. Within the hour though, I was back out on the street, borrowing a stranger’s phone, and calling my dealer.
Several small-print journals in the painting don’t strike me as terribly important or interesting at this point in time. In the bottom left though, it says: “Sometimes I bumout about being such a fuck-up, but – if I weren’t – I wouldn’t be able to make (authentic) rad shit like this painting.”
I’m not sure that that quite balances out but – I am who I am. My history is just that – it’s happened. Nothing will change what I’ve put myself, or anyone else, through.
Though in case it doesn’t go without saying – intentionally ridiculous title aside – I really am, genuinely, very SORRY FOR OVERDOSING IN YOUR BATHROOM. I imagine, at the time, it came across as an act of spite, but it really was merely an act of desperation. It had nothing to do with you; yours was just the place where I felt I had the best chance. And probably, in some twisted sense, where I felt safest. I’m sorry that I, very selfishly, let that outweigh what should have been my consideration for your welfare.
And the same goes to anyone else I’ve ever put in a similar position, only to then mine that traumafor humor or insight, for the sake of art. I work with a LIMITED PALETTE, trying to make the most of what I’ve got and spin it into something better.
It’s kind of all I know how to do.
I hope you (still) like it.
This painting was sold years ago but there are 12×12-inch prints on sale in the webstore while supplies last. Buy one and you’ll be funding my continued existence, artwork, and writing for at least two more days!
After packing my entire life into my car, stashing it on the fifth floor of a parking garage, and preparing to go to my grandparents’ ALF to wait out the hurricane (‘cause the building is “hurricane-proof” and has generators), my ex got around my many blocks (phone, email, social media) and begged me to give her ONE MORE CHANCE. And I brilliantly allowed her to come with me. It was fine (even GREAT) for that first night and then – the day of the hurricane – it became clear that nothing had changed and I was trapped in there with her.
It was torturous. To love someone so much, know it won’t work out, and then be stuck someplace together. And she just doesn’t get it. She still thought we were going to sleep together that second night, cuddled up, spooning on the couch. (There was no bed in the room we stayed in). I don’t know if she’s a sociopath or just has the emotional intelligence of a five year-old but I also know it DOESN’T REFLECT ESPECIALLY WELL ON ME that I was ever in love with this person or thought I wanted a life with her. I know I say this all the time but “we are attracted (and attractive) to people with similar levels of emotional health/maturity.” I would like to believe that my reluctance/refusal to engage with this anymore means that I’m getting better.
Anyway, it turned out that even though the hurricane made its initial landfall RIGHT HERE IN SARASOTA (less than a mile from my place), everything was alright. And nothing happened to my car. So I spent all day putting my life/home back together (just finished this minute) and I can LICK MY EMOTIONAL WOUNDS from the comfort of my home.
Things could have been worse. I need to remember to be grateful for what I’ve got. Friends (that helped me unload my car and then FED ME PIZZA), a home that I like, people all over that care about me, I’m clean, back to making art, and I don’t need to rebuild my life from scratch simply because of a natural disaster/GOD HATES ME. (Or maybe he doesn’t, seeing as how it worked out). But he PROBABLY does.
This was originally written simply as the caption for a TIKTOK VIDEO(I wonder if those words will ever not sound ridiculous to me?) because I’m currently operating under the belief that TikTok is my best shot at marketing myself/rebuilding my career, especially as long as I’m still just living in Sarasota. Here are the photos from the post for anyone that doesn’t wanna use that app.
Photo I took from the garage where I parked my car.That’s one of my dad’s sculptures front and center. He died in 2021.Where I write, draw, and do any computer-kinda work.Where I paint.Me, in bed, with a print that I stuck over my head, just to take this photo and make it more interesting. Because I’m both vain and self-promoting.
Coming out of summer 2017, I was in bad shape. The stories I could tell about overdosing, trying to kill myself, getting arrested, running from cops, hospitalizations, scamming money, getting robbed, stealing, and just all kinds of sad, desperate shit. If I told you how many roaches had infested my house and what I was doing to “deal” with them, you might not believe me. One day, I got across town to buy drugs and have no memory of how I even got there. After I copped—without a way back home—I just walked into a house that looked abandoned. I shut the front door behind me, sat on the floor of the living room, and shot up. When I woke hours later, my pockets were empty. Someone had come in and stolen my phone and whatever else I had on me. (Probably not much at that point). I mention this specific incident not because it was extraordinary but because it exemplifies a typical day back then. It was one of the less notable things to happen around that time.
I had warrants, and the police were banging on our door often enough that I couldn’t stay there anymore without risking arrest. Wallis and I took just a few things and went over to Steph’s for the next month or so. We were there for Hurricane Irma. My only memory of it is being dopesick, laying in Steph’s bathtub, waiting for what seemed like forever for a dealer to show up despite the storm.
I don’t remember the final straw, but I’d had enough. I got the money together for a four-hour Uber ride out of Jacksonville to Bradenton – to stay with my “adoptive family.” I had the driver meet us back at our house, where we frantically packed, hoping the cops wouldn’t show up before we could get what we needed and on the road. Most of our possessions were left to rot. This would begin the period I now call Round 2: Eight months of clean time – my first since the relapse that put my art career on an extended hiatus.
The detox wasn’t too bad and I was fairly happy just to be somewhere safe and not on drugs. Wallis had a harder time adjusting. She replaced shooting up with drinking and – IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT – started losing control. One night, especially drunk, we had one of our worst fights ever. She kept threatening to call the police to tell them where I was, get me picked up for one of my warrants. She did this as she was repeatedly punching me in the face. I picked her up, carried her to the front door, tossed her out, and locked the door. When she finally calmed down, I let her back in, but told her we were going to have to call it for a while. The next day, I put her back on a bus to Jacksonville to do whatever it was that she was gonna do.
I started painting again. It was tough starting from scratch after a couple years away from art, but I was enjoying it. The first painting I made was “Mental Health Services Available to Strippers, Junkies, Cutters, and Other SICK GIRLS.” It was, essentially, just about being lonely. Wondering if I wanted Wallis back or just someone. The title was a joke about the kind of girls that I attract. As it also says on that painting, “we are attracted (and attractive) to those with similar levels of mental health.”
“Chemicool” was painting #2. The text up top explains itself: “I HAVE ELEVEN WEEKS CLEAN OFF HEROIN AND NOTHING ELSE.”
But things were picking up. I’d sold some prints. I had a couple offers for new originals. (“Enjoy Me While You Can” and “Run Free, Spit Fire, Yell at Clouds” were both sold before I’d even started them). And “Chemicool,” once finished, was scheduled to be in a group exhibit at a local gallery.
I’d been talking to Wallis about bringing her back down once we’d both leveled out a bit. That would mean getting our own place though. It was too much for both of us (and Lukah) to be living with my fake family. And then, one night, as I journaled:
Oh great. And I just got word that she’s BACK on heroin and back on the street. I’m about to have art money again. Do I spend that to get her here and rent an apartment that I really don’t need? So much for waiting ’til we’re both stable. That day’s never coming. But hey - THESE COLORS LOOK NEAT.
(I do love me some bright, neon colors. It is some consolation when everything else is wrong).
I added sardonically, “I think I’ll kill myself now.” I didn’t mean it; it was just frustrating that Wallis was fucking up so badly.
“Chemicool” went into the group exhibit and sold on the opening night. And I did bring Wallis back to Sarasota. (And was able to get her clean again). But a few months later, just after signing the lease for the apartment we’d found, I got it into my head to use again. On my own. Didn’t even tell her. She’d found a job and I did it one day while she was working.
And everything, of course, fell apart again. And it would stay that way for more than a year before I finally called Brandon to ask him, “If I go to detox, can I stay with you for a while when I get out?” He said yes. I told Wallis he’d be picking me up in the morning. Our electricity had already been cut and the rent was overdue. We hadn’t even really been staying there the last month, but – with me out of the picture – it was clear that the power wasn’t coming back on and she’d need to find somewhere else to go. It was almost certainly the end of our five years together.
Brandon did not pick me up the next morning. Because I was in jail. Arrested just a few hours after calling him. The cops didn’t seem to care that I had plans to go to detox in the morning. They, of course, brought me in. In my possession were enough drugs to warrant more than ninety felony charges. But that’s another story.
This painting was commissioned by a wonderfully supportive patron named Maura, as a tribute to her friend, Tommy, after his passing.
I knew Maura a little through emails but didn’t know Tommy at all. Honoring someone I didn’t know was a little intimidating. It felt like a big responsibility and I wanted to do a good job.
After looking over his social media, I was able to paint little allusions to his interests, but I knew the text was gonna have to carry most of the weight. I needed something that would pay tribute to Tommy and – hopefully – bring some comfort to Maura and anyone else Tommy left behind that would see my work.
A week or so in, I saw a feature column about suicides and empathy that triggered something. I started journaling about it in the silver quadrant of the painting, but it didn’t really go anywhere. If it weren’t for the bit where I name a few friends, cut myself off, and instead say “WHOEVER READS THIS AND WANTS ME TO BE SAD WHEN THEY DIE” – and the fact that that gave me a shitty little smile – I probably would’ve painted over it. I’d mildly succeeded in amusing myself but certainly wasn’t meeting the bar I’d set to honor Tommy. I took another shot at it in the green quadrant:
This painting was commissioned for Tommy, who’s not with us anymore. Maura told me about this poem he liked. Asked if I could incorporate it somehow. The last part was his favorite. “I was a dog on a short chain and now there’s no chain.” I (think) I get it. It’s about being free. Which I can appreciate. I mean, I am a STRAY DOG. (Even if I sometimes consider trading that freedom for the warmth of a home). Now - thinking of Tommy and the way his chain’s really been cut… Death is the ultimate freedom. It’s freedom from everything that fucks us up in life. AND it’s a home (of sorts) and…
That train of thought hit a wall. I was rambling again, lost, trying stumble into meaning.
What the fuck am I even talking about? I don’t know anything about anything. I wanna believe that Tommy and all the people we care about but aren’t here anymore - that they’re all free and okay and “singing loud” and safe and “warm” and… I don’t know. Maybe they are. Maybe it’s a nice thought at least.
Fuck it. You know what? (You know where my fucking name comes from?) “Thrash life! No death!” And I think that’s the same sentiment that Tommy appreciated in that poem. Forget all that shit that comes with “the ultimate chain” or the freedom that comes in death. Tommy wanted to break the chains here on earth and LIVE FREE. So that’s what we ought to do and that’s what I wanna focus on. I wanna RUN FREE, SPIT FIRE, YELL AT CLOUDS, sing dumb songs, and thrash life. This one’s for you, Tommy. I hope you’re out there, fucking shit up in the ether.
It’s been six years since I painted “Run Free” and wrote those passages. Looking back at it today as I finally write a statement to accompany the painting, I can’t help but think of my friend, Steph, who just died. I didn’t cry right when I found out she was gone, but I did cry when I woke up the next morning, thinking about how trapped and hopeless she must have felt. We’d not been in regular contact for a while but she was important enough to me that – had I known how close to the edge she was – I’d have told her, “If you don’t want to go back to Jacksonville – fuck it – come here. You can stay with me. Or just try something – anything – different from what you’re doing now.
Could I have fixed her? No. But we could’ve spent time together. We could’ve laughed. And maybe she’d have seen that things weren’t so bad outside of the shitty little world she’d constructed around herself back in New Orleans. Maybe she’d have found it in her to build something new.
Life is hard enough for anyone, but when you don’t believe in anything and you’re miserable, it’s pretty tough to justify not killing yourself via overdose (intentional or not) – or even arguing to a suicidal friend that they wouldn’t be better off dead. But life can also be pretty great every now and then. Being in love. Genuine, caught-off-guard laughter. Even just seeing something that reminds you of someone you care about. Mischief. PUNK ROCK. Setting a goal and meeting or exceeding it. Making something that’s meaningful to you and then OTHER PEOPLE TELLING YOU IT’S ALSO MEANINGFUL TO THEM. Shit – last night I posted my first TikTok video that actually seemed to get some attention from strangers who are now following me.
Some of these things (okay – mostly that last one) are pretty trivial. But they’re also ENERGIZING. They FEEL GOOD. Even with friends dying, and some girl breaking my stupid fucking heart, and feeling lonely (and like a 38 year-old fuck-up who’s starting from scratch again, barely able to support himself, AND (so far) NOT SELLING ANYWHERE NEAR AS MANY PRINTS FROM MY FRESHLY LAUNCHED WEBSTORE AS I’D HOPED).
If we don’t know what the alternative is – and if it may well be simply ceasing to exist, why not try to make the most of the time we do have? What do we have to lose?
And what can we do to honor the people we’ve lost?
Not much. But we can live in ways that would make them smile if they could only see us. And maybe they can. (Probably they can’t). But LET’S JUST SAY THEY CAN and do it anyway. If nothing else, it’ll make it easier for us to keep going. And we might as well. Those little moments and good feelings are worth living for.
Being a commission, this painting is already sold, but 16×12-inch prints are available (and BEAUTIFUL) in my new webstore. And if you’d like to commission your very own original painting, I would (of course) love to hear from you.
Your support (sharing/reposting, buying, whatever) means everything to me. Thanks for reading.
![Apparently Proverbs 5:19 says: “Like a loving doe and a graceful mountain goat, Let her breasts satisfy you at all times; Be exhilarated always with her love.”
So… Christianity is fucking weird, you guys.
Then again, I sure could go for a nice girl with ]THE GRACE OF A MOUNTAIN GOAT and, like, really cool tits.
Anyone know how I’d go about getting baptized?](https://samnorth.art/wp-content/uploads/Grace-of-a-Mountain-Goat-751x1024.jpg)
![Apparently Proverbs 5:19 says: “Like a loving doe and a graceful mountain goat, Let her breasts satisfy you at all times; Be exhilarated always with her love.” So… Christianity is fucking weird, you guys. Then again, I sure could go for a nice girl with ]THE GRACE OF A MOUNTAIN GOAT and, like, really cool tits. Anyone know how I’d go about getting baptized?](https://samnorth.art/wp-content/uploads/Grace-of-a-Mountain-Goat-300x300.jpg)
