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.
“Uncertainty over Unhappiness.” 5/5/25. Ink on bristol. 10×10″.
This drawing started with a request: “Will you make a painting of my house?”
Yeah, um, absolutely not.
But I told the guy I could do my usual nonsense but work his house somewhere in there.
He was cool with that but told me he didn’t want any BAD WORDS or NEGATIVE MESSAGES. As if I couldn’t have deduced that on my own. I don’t take instructions but I’m not gonna deliver something I know the buyer won’t like. And someone who starts off with a request like his – he wants something SAFE. Safe = uplifting, positive. Hope, not despair. And NOTHING TOO FUNNY OR CYNICAL.
Listening to a podcast, I heard something that I’d written about many times before: “People will choose unhappiness over uncertainty.” Hearing it articulated by someone else made it feel especially profound – particularly in relation to someone who’d been blowing up my phone all day. I knew UNCERTAINTY VS UNHAPPINESS had to be the theme here; I just needed a positive angle on it.
I wrote a journal into the drawing:
It’s frustrating when someone you love chooses to rot in misery. What’s she so afraid of? Why can’t she break away?
BUT I DID THE SAME THING. I surrendered to an empty life because my familiar rut was comfortable compared to other hells I’d called home (or the hell in my imagination).
SOMETIMES A SAFETY NET IS MORE NET THAN SAFETY. I had to lose mine to break free.
But uncertainty is better than unhappiness. “Someday this will all be over” and the regrets I’ve got are enough. Despair’s not worth much; might as well trade it for uncertainty. It’s worth the risk.
I was trying to articulate the sense of danger that breaking out of a rut often requires. You don’t like what your life’s become but you’re afraid to change anything. I did this for YEARS, so I get it. I told myself, “It could be SO MUCH WORSE. Surely, this degree of unhappiness is manageable.”
But that’s not living- it’s surviving. And our time is limited. We need to be bold. We need to chase dreams. And so long as we’re making a genuine effort – following our hearts instead of giving in to fear – I think it’s rare for things to go too wrong.
It’s only in resignation that we sink into really deep, lasting depressions. Nobody making a real effort is sad all the time because making an effort is ENERGIZING. The pursuit itself makes us feel good. Even when I’ve fallen short or things didn’t work out exactly as I’d like, I’ve yet to regret any steps I’ve taken to improve my life.
On the other hand, when I’ve resisted change – just to hold onto the pathetic little comforts I thought made my life bearable: I’d give just about anything to go back and let my shit fall apart sooner – so that I could get better sooner.
If you’ve gotta convince yourself that you’re happy, you’re not. And you won’t be until you make serious changes. And you probably already know what those changes are. If you’re afraid, don’t be. In considering bold, positive steps, the things we’re afraid to lose are likely keeping us sick. And the thing we’re actually most likely to lose is our misery.
A note about this drawing’s origins…
Toward the end of my eight-and-a-half year relapse, I’d become so resigned to addiction for the rest of my life, that I decided to try to start making art again. Until that point, it’d always been my policy that art and drugs would never coexist in my life. I started one painting and one drawing but didn’t get very far. This was the drawing. It sat unfinished for months while I was still using.
The guy who originally wanted to commission a painting of his house wasn’t paying enough for any painting (even if, as agreed, I’d make whatever I wanted and just include his house somewhere in it). So I offered him a 10×10-inch drawing instead, with the plan that I’d finally finish this one, which had been sitting untouched for a year even after I got clean. He agreed, so that’s what I did.
It’s been a little bit of a rough month. Four of my last five dates got canceled for weather. Wind in Venice, an ice storm in Columbia, and now snow in Greensboro and Charlotte. It’s a pretty major financial hit, so I have to remind myself that I’m still doing VERY WELL.
I’ll be back in Florida next week for the Downtown Sarasota Festival of the Arts. Judging just by the exhibitor standards and the cost to participate, it seems like a more exclusive step-up from the other events I’ve done in the past. I’m excited to see if it draws a wealthier crowd – the kind of people who’ll drop four-figures, right then and there, for a painting they like. Up to this point, I haven’t sold any of my more expensive paintings at an event like this. I’ve sold smaller ones for a few hundred and I’ve met people who followed-up and later bought a more expensive painting but never on the spot.
I still want to get into more galleries (which is where I’ve historically sold my bigger, more expensive paintings) but if it turns out that I can find the right buyers at art festivals – THAT’S COOL TOO. I’ve currently got a bunch of applications in for similar events scattered across the southeast and midwest. Decisions on those applications start coming in next month.
I’m a little nervous that my work, at first glance, might turn off some jurors at “higher tier” festivals, but I have no doubts about the strength of my work. I’m optimistic that some jurors will recognize its value, even quickly flipping through applications on a screen and missing smaller details, like the more meaningful passages of text. Though I also know some will scoff at what they perceive as crude titles (without looking any deeper) or that some purists might say things like, “This guy is a writer masquerading as a painter. Real artists don’t need words to be evocative.”
They’re wrong, of course. People want to connect on a deeper level and language makes that possible. My text enhances my paintings in the same way lyrics enhance a song.
Does it sound like I’m GETTING DEFENSIVE? Defensive against a critic who (thus far) only exists in my head?
I mean, that’s pretty on brand for me, wouldn’t you say?
Arguing with ghosts is fun. I ALWAYS WIN.
Check the Events page for more info on everything I’ve got coming up. Prints of “Uncertainty over Unhappiness” are now available in the webstore.
It’s probably a consequence of the specific “world” I grew up in but I don’t really know too many people who are succeeding. A lot of my friends struggle. Some aren’t especially happy.
I don’t envy my friends that put in 40 hours on shit they don’t particularly like, to make some dipshit (that’s dumber than they are) richer than they are.
And then they pay rent. To a LANDLORD. Because he owns the properties. Inherited, or bought with money most of us will never have.
The system is fucked. AND WE’RE (mostly) WHITE KIDS. (Or more recently/accurately, white “adults”). We’ve got SOME DEGREE OF PRIVILEGE.
Then again, like attracts like; my friends are like me. And being a working-class, too-smart-for-your-own-good basketcase isn’t exactly a recipe for UPWARD CLASS MOBILITY.
There’s this lyric: “the decks are stacked and the house always wins when the dealer’s crooked … but we’ve been counting cards. We’re fucking fed up; shit’s gone too far.”2
I love that line. The world’s gonna cheat us and we’ve still gotta play the hand we’re dealt, so fuck THEIR rules. We’ll play it our way, with every trick we’ve got.
I often describe my art career as “A PRETTY GOOD SCAM.” That’s honestly what it feels like.
I wake up every day and do whatever the fuck I want. I write about myself and paint funny facesin ridiculous colors – and then I getpaid for it. I’m not rich, but I’m not poor either. In the last year, I’ve loaned or given money to friends and family that have fucking jobs.
When I started down this path, I had zero technical ability as an artist (AND I’VE NOT GAINED MUCH SINCE THEN). I’ve refined my eye for color and composition, but what I have most of all is a personality, a worldview, and the ability and willingness to articulate it (in a way that other people find funny, insightful, and resonant). That’s been the key ingredient in my success. I’m the only person in the world who can do exactly what I do.
But my broken brain, personality, worldview, and INABILITY TO EVER SHUT THE FUCK UP also led me to heroin. And heroin has eaten years of my life and taken me to horribly traumatic places that I’d tell you about IF I WANTED TO START CRYING RIGHT NOW.
Ultimately, heroin led me to expressive art therapy. Which I hated because I was bad at it. But I really liked the way the other mental cases responded when it’d be my turn in group to talk about what I’d made. They laughed when I wanted. They were affected when I wanted. And they fed me praise.
Returning to the world, I needed an income, but I’d never successfully held a job. I’m INSUBORDINATE.
Though I didn’t have the first clue if it was even possible, or how to go about it, I decided to see if anyone would buy my art. Turns out it was possible right outta the gate.
Three years later, I experienced the worst trauma of my life, fell the fuck apart, relapsed for 8 years, and resigned myself to failure and addiction forever. Until my girlfriend decided the future might look better with someone else. So I got clean (TO SHOW HER) and started painting again. I anxiously anticipated it blowing up in my face, but didn’t know what else to do.
Wanna know the really fucked up part? A year and change later, I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I wake up excited each day. I’m excited for the future.
Monday through Thursday is a lot of writing, inventory, accounting, logistics, booking, website and bus maintenance.
Friday through Sunday, I set-up a killer display of THE BEST FUCKING ART EVER MADE and I work on my latest painting while singing along to all my favorite punk rock, as strangers give me their money in exchange for the products of my mental illness, my personality, my traumas, and my victories.
A lot of my life’s been pretty miserable. I’ve got some dark stories. I’ve lived through dark YEARS.
But “The Luckiest Little Shit in the World” is a victory product. It’s a victory lap on 2025, when I relaunched my art career, killed it, and had a fucking blast. It’s really not even fair how much fun I’m having and how much the world rewards me for it. I really do feel like the luckiest little shit in the world.
FOR NOW. Fear and anxiety are never far from my mind. These good feelings are fairly new and I’m still sorta broken – I’m still me – and thank fucking god for that.
It’s the key ingredient.
I’m sure there’s some degree of recency bias, but this just might be my favorite thing that I’ve ever painted. I think I mentioned in my blog entry for “So Smart”3 that I had a sorta epiphany in October, when I realized that I was happier than I’ve ever been. That’s when I came up with the concept for this painting and I couldn’t wait to finish “So Smart” and get to this one. It pleases me to no end that it turned out every bit as well as I could’ve hoped.
Virtually all of this painting’s statement appears right on the canvas [starting in the square-headed, rainbow-toothed figure at the bottom left]. There’s some additional text scattered about too though. Some of it’s stuff that also appears in the statement/main body of text but some’s totally different. I’m not gonna transcribe all of it here but it includes:
Embarrassing, insecure, spur-of-the-moment journaling after two girls separately propositioned me, and how that felt validating even though there’s only one girl I really want attention from right now. (90% of this is written on the top edge of the canvas so can only be read from the actual painting).
The realization that I’ve somehow never had to get a job to pay bills.
The recognition that – even if you took away everything else that’s good in my life – the unreasonable amount of joy I get from miserable punk songs still gives me an unfair advantage (toward being happy) over everyone else on the planet.
“Is the universe FUCKING WITH ME or looking out for me by giving me two disappointing weekends right after I start a painting about how I’m SO GOD DAMNED #BLESSED?”
And some other random stuff about not making enough money – then immediately making more than enough money – plus some anxiety written in a moment when I stopped being stoked on this painting, thought it wasn’t gonna be good enough, only to quickly figure out how to make it better and get stoked on it again.
On Monday night, I was rejected for some group exhibition at a gallery, for which I’d thought I was a shoe-in because I’ve become too self-assured when it comes to my work. I wrote about that in more detail here.
Yesterday, I was accepted to (what I understand to be) an art festival held in particularly high-regard. I’m putting in applications to lots of similar events in the coming weeks. I’m excited to see how those all play out.
There’s a lot here that calls to mind earlier work. The other paintings featured in this blog entry are the ones with statements I’ve hyperlinked in the body of the text. ↩︎
The song I’m referencing is “Countin’ Cards” by Escape from the Zoo: ↩︎
Nope – it’s in the statement for “All the Time Lost,” which I’ve not yet published online. ↩︎
“Poetry by (2,025) Girls I’ve Brutally Fucked” | 5/10/25* | acrylics on canvas | 12 x 24 in
I painted this as the front and back covers for a split 7-inch by Apocalypse Meow and Todd Congelliere. It was the first time I’d done a commissioned piece in my usual/expressive style instead of taking the more labored cartoon/illustration approach.
The caption (“I was talking to this girl I REALLY GAVE IT TO. She said she wrote a poem about it. A poem about my fucking. That made me smile.”) seemed a little much for a pop punk record so I replaced it with the band names on the actual record layout.
I hadn’t actually seen the poem yet when I made this, but I read it soon after. Turns out it was only partially about “my fucking” and way more beautiful, affectionate, and insightful than I feel like I deserve. It’s really great and – in that way – makes me feel kind of shitty, even though I didn’t do anything wrong. We had sex, it was fun; we hung out, it was fun; and then we repeated that cycle a few times. I guess friendship and fucking don’t really go together without feelings developing.
I’ve been sleeping around lately, getting involved with different girls to different degrees; I’m probably asking for trouble. I’m probably about to fuck myself – one way or another. There’s a lot more I could write about all that but I don’t wanna push myself to be too honest / transparent right now. That feels okay.
There’s this other girl… I wrote (what I guess I’d call) a long prose poem about her and about my experience with her in the week after we met. I’d developed feelings of my own for her [how novel!] But I was conscious of the fact that – this sort of thing – it does happen fairly often with me. I wrote a little bit about that too:
I’ve got these fucking warm, fuzzy feelings for a lot of people. A lot of my friends – I love them, I hug them, all that. But when I have these feelings for girls [I’m attracted to] (it doesn’t matter how many) I love them and I also want to kiss them, sleep with them [etc.] I don’t think that’s wrong or weird but you’re not supposed to do that. You’re supposed to have feelings for one person that are strong enough that you don’t even want to connect with another person in that way. That seems like bullshit.
I don’t know… maybe I’m just selfish. Love and sex are all twisted up and make for difficultly-navigable terrain. I just wanna love and fuck without being confused.
Everything from here forward was written in May 2025. Everything written above this is from 12 years ago, in the period when I was the most girl-crazy and the most promiscuous. I was meeting lots of girls that wanted to sleep with me and I think I was just really excited about that because that, in itself, was sorta new. It was the first time (since I’d been a teenager) that I wasn’t in a committed, monogamous relationship, and it was the first time ever that I’d had confidence that I wasn’t entirely faking.
A year or so after all that though, I relapsed and then (another year or so later) I tried to kill myself. Right before the attempt, I lit my biggest painting on fire and then slashed and smashed the others. There were seven in all and – when I was FEELING BETTER – I started the process of stitching them all up with dental floss. This one wasn’t super torn up but it was so badly smashed that it needed to be stretched across new bars. For that reason, it was the last one I got around to restoring. I just did it recently but also decided that the painting itself needed some work. Like the actual art wasn’t up to my standards anymore. Which makes sense because I made it more than a decade ago. So that’s what I did. You can see the original “finished” version of the painting here.
This painting is not the kinda thing I’d make today. That thought in the fourth paragraph (about “asking for trouble”) is ESPECIALLY PRESCIENT. ‘Cause that’s exactly what happened – and to a more traumatizing degree than I could have ever imagined. But even though the sentiment of this painting is the kinda thing that could SEND THE WRONG MESSAGE in 2025, I don’t wanna change those elements of it. I like being honest. I like telling the full story. I’d just turned 28 and I’d spent most of the years prior in a single committed relationship. So now I was in a phase of experimentation. And I was pretty excited about it. And while I’m embarrassed by just about everything in this painting’s statement, I don’t really think I should be. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with rough sex or liking rough sex or even just figuring out what kinds of sex you like. So long as you’ve got a consenting, enthusiastic partner, be adventurous. Go for it. Do whatever. Life’s too short to not find happiness and fulfillment wherever you can.
This has no business being on the internet but I’m neurotic and can’t stand the idea of leaving something out of my “portfolio.” I’m very much taking advantage of the fact that my mailing list was lost in the domain transfer and very few people will be notified that this is now online.
You’ll Miss Me When I’m Gone (and Other Lies): The exciting new bestseller from the acclaimed author of “Why Don’t You Love Me Anymore?” and “Wah Wah Wah” | 8/30/25* | acrylic on canvas | 48×36″
It’ll get meaningful by the end, but what you’re gonna read up to that point is stupid as fuck. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I hate the feeling of BEING IN TROUBLE, especially for something that felt light-hearted. Brandon said he and Nick meant to take Callie’s pumpkins the other night but took another route home and forgot.
“You wanna go get ‘em now?” I asked. “Sure,” he said. But then Amanda said Brandon wasn’t allowed to go, but I could. So I did.
This is all for the BIRTHDAY PUMPKIN tradition, by the way. (Abridged explanation: it goes back to our teenage years, it’s basically just wrecking some leftover Halloween pumpkins; METHODS VARY).
I just got one of Brandon’s notoriously incomprehensible voice-to-text messages. I think he’s complaining about having to RETURN THE FUCKING PUMPKIN. Which makes no sense. WE’VE TAKEN CALLIE’S PUMPKINS BEFORE and it’s never been an issue. Why is this a fucking thing? And why is he giving me grief on my birthday for doing what he suggested I do?
I just made a video to promote the market I’m at this morning. I tagged the organizer but now I’m worried they’re gonna NOT LIKE IT ‘cause I said the word “fuck.” Granted, that hasn’t ACTUALLY happened but…
People are fucking squares and I’m NOT OPTIMISTIC about today, personally or professionally. The plan was Brandon and Amanda’s tonight (FOR BIRTHDAY) and now instead of that (or seeing ANYONE) I kinda just wanna isolate in a parking lot for the night.
I’m not TOTALLY BUMMING. It’s not cause for DEEP DESPAIR like it maybe woulda been in years past. But I’m feeling like “fuck everyone else in the world.”
My birthday’s not some precious thing to me. That’s why I booked this Tuesday morning market for today, even though it meant (1) I’d have to get up at 6am and (2) I’d likely spend three hours of my day on the manual labor of setting up and breaking down for very little financial return. (It’s a new market and this is bizarre scheduling so I’m not expecting much turnout). But on a Tuesday morning (even one that happens to be my BIRTHDAY) what else am I gonna do? The opportunity-cost (and fee) are low enough that it’s worth doing.
So far, I’m enjoying being out here, painting and listening to punk rock, but I just started thinking about how I miss having A PERSON — and how my last person just yesterday flew across the country to go into rehab again. And then I started thinking about nurturingsick relationships. (Not with her; just in general). And THEN it occurred to me that I could use today and no one would ever know. AND I DOUBT I’M GONNA but I HAD THE THOUGHT.
It’s later now (5pm? 6?). Brandon asked if I’m coming over. (Not when, but if). I asked if he REALLY returned that pumpkin or if I got his message wrong. He said he did, so that Amanda “wouldn’t get pulled into PUMPKIN DRAMA.” [that emphasis is my own]. I said, “I don’t know why there’d have been drama and I definitely don’t know why Amanda would get pulled into it but okay.”
He didn’t call and say, “Let’s not stress it; it’s your birthday. Let’s just have a good time.” He texted back: “if you wanna argue about it, maybe it wouldn’t be a good birthday dinner.”
So I just thumbs-upped that shit and I’m not going. Was tempted to say, “OKAY SEE YOU IN DECEMBER” but it’s a sicker move to just let them both (eventually) realize they’re not gonna see me for (at least) 5 weeks now.
Apparently, Amanda bought pumpkins today, but you’d have to fucking pay me to use those as birthday pumpkins after this dumb bullshit. “Birthday pumpkin” is fucking done forever as far as I’m concerned. It was already sorta embarrassing and this was the fucking nail in the coffin of that tradition.
It’s dark now (9pm). I’m not gonna use (obviously). I’m just gonna fix the hot water and then get something to eat FOR THE FIRST TIME TODAY (as per usual). [I’m SO PROUD of my disordered eating].
This painting’s not about about going away for 5 weeks. Its title (LIKE ALL GOOD TITLES) is a suicide threat. I’m not even 5% of the way to that BUT I STILL ENJOY THE SENTIMENT. And I finished painting it 8 weeks before this all happened, but it’s felt like it’s missing something — and that something is definitely some petty/diaper-baby text. So I’m gonna hit it with a pen and work most of this in there. “BIRTHDAY PUMPKIN IS FUCKING DONE FOREVER” strikes me as especially funny. [I’m such a substantive, serious person!]
BEING DEAD so EVERYONE CAN FEEL BAD ABOUT THE HORRIBLE INJUSTICES THEY INFLICTED UPON ME is a nice fantasy. Emphasis on “fantasy.” No one gives a shit and I’m a fucking crybaby. Good thing I was INSIGHTFUL enough 8 weeks ago to NAIL IT with the (“and Other Lies”) subtitle.
Speaking of which, the other text on the book’s cover is: The exciting new bestseller from the acclaimed author of “Why Don’t You Love Me Anymore?” and “Wah Wah Wah.”
I came up with the title and subtitle one day as I was driving around, listening to punk rock, and smiling my dumb little shit-eating grin. But the part just below that (“the exciting new bestseller…”), I came up with all that on the spot, as I was painting. It’s my FAVORITE PART. “Wah Wah Wah” certainly seems to capture the sentiment of everything you just read.
I am a (now) forty year old fucking child.
A few notes as I write this two weeks later:
As I mention in the statement, this painting was “finished” by August 30th and what you just read wasn’t written until November 4th. But the painting and the text seemed to belong together so – now they’re together. I wrote all that text onto the canvas on November 7th.
When Juliana and I broke up, Brandon and Amanda took me in. I was still shooting up. Other friends warned them not to do it. Or to undo it as I continued shooting up but assuring them that I was titrating down. They ignored everyone else and took a chance on me. A month or so later, I was clean and I’ve been clean since.
In those early days, it was Amanda who helped me sort out the legal mess I’d been ignoring for eight years. She helped me get my driver’s license back and resolve my outstanding warrants. And it was Brandon who pushed me to start making art again. I was resistant. I was scared. What if I “didn’t have it” anymore? What if the world didn’t give a shit anymore? He got me through all that.
All of this is to say that I don’t know what my life looks like today without Brandon and Amanda. They were there for me in a way that no one else was. They let me go at my own pace. FOR THE MOST PART…
We agreed on a deadline. When I woke up on April 8 (2024) – no more shooting up.
Naturally, on the night of Sunday, April 7, I decided to take another stab at a fatal overdose. But I didn’t die and they still didn’t give up on me. And – sure enough – April 8, 2024 is my “clean date” now. And this is the longest clean streak of my life.
This blog entry is scheduled to auto-publish on November 25th, but today is the 18th, so it’s been two weeks since all that embarrassingly stupid pumpkin shit, and I’ve still not spoken to either of them. It occurs to me that this probably warrants some action on my part. But I don’t think I’m gonna reach out. I am, however, gonna pull THAT FUCKING CANVAS OUT AGAIN and add a bunch of this text. (It’ll be there in there by the time you see this). ’Cause the painting deserves it and they deserve it. It shouldn’t just be the dumb, petty shit.
Changing a painting TWICE after I’ve already paid to have it professionally photographed, that’s not normal for me. With very few exceptions, once one of my paintings is “done,” its FUCKING LOCKED. But this one won’t let that happen apparently. It doesn’t want to be finished yet. Hopefully the same is true of my friendships.
It’s embarrassing but putting this in my art and putting it out into the world – that’s maybe as close as I can muster to reaching out. Acknowledging that is even more embarrassing. Contemplating whether it will trigger a response, well that would be too much even for me. SO I’M DEFINITELY NOT DOING THAT.
Poor Forever | 10/12/25 | acrylic on canvas | 36×36″
“Do you wanna be POOR FOREVER?” is what I ask my friends when they spend money frivolously. It’s also the question that rings out in my head whenever I’m considering spending money on ANYTHING.
My attitudes about money come from my dad, his dad, and my mom. There were the ways they talked about money and the ways I saw them use it.
My dad was POOR FOREVER. Or at least he acted like he was. Based on my inheritance [his clothing] I’m gonna assume that he probably was. He certainly never spent money on me or my siblings. And if any of us were to ever ask for something, it was QUITE THE ORDEAL. Because, as he told it, he just didn’t have it! If it was important enough, maybe he could ask my grandpa.
But he also had some curiously expensive shit. And he traveled a lot. Maybe that was all paid for by his second wife. I don’t know.
My mom had FAMILY MONEY. She was very good at spending it. So far as I know, that’s why she no longer has any family money.
In any case, I don’t have a safety net. Not that I’m aware of anyway.
My grandpa died recently. He worked his whole life and made a good living but still kinda behaved as if he were afraid of being poor forever. That’s how I’m trying to be.1 That’s how you accrue SAVINGS. And “savings” give you safety.
My grandpa wrote a bunch of different wills over the course of the last twenty years but I don’t know the details of his estate and I kinda feel like it’s none of my business anyway. Even if he didn’t provide for me directly, I’m pretty sure he provided for my dad and (SEEING AS MY DAD’S DEAD) maybe some of that’s supposed to trickle to me? Who the fuck knows. It all feels weird and fucked up and I don’t know anything about that kinda shit so I just focus on trying to take care of myself.
Don’t get me wrong – I WOULD LIKE SOME MONEY. (PLEASE GIVE ME ALL THE MONEY). Not to spend – just to have. Because I kinda live in a perpetual, low-level state of financial anxiety. It would be super nice to know that I’m not gonna die in poverty.
(Isn’t this all SUPER UNIQUE AND INTERESTING? I’m definitely the only person who has these thoughts or fears, right? I journaled some shit along these lines into the painting only to realize — and say as much, with arrows pointing out at my mundane concerns: “I’m PRETTY BORING”).
None of this is to say though that I’m even in poverty now. As I wrote into the top left of this painting: “I realized today that I have more money than I’ve ever had.” And since then, that number tends to tick down for a few days, before it shoots up to a new most-money-I’ve-ever-had number. We’re not talking numbers that are gonna blow anyone’s mind, but I could make a down payment on a house. Y’know – if any bank would ever give me a mortgage. (Which they wouldn’t).
My concern is that my overhead is very low. If I were living A NORMAL LIFE, I would not be able to tuck this much away.
And if I can be a FUCKING FAGGOT for a second, I think I still wanna have a FOREVER PARTNER and a kid. And those things require money and stability.
[Please excuse my use of the word “faggot” but — as we all know — there’s nothing gayer than falling in love with a girl. And as someone who’s been calleda faggot more times than I can count, I think I should get to use the word just once (in GOOD HUMOR) seein’ as I made it to my 257th piece of art without ever having used it before].
[That said, if you’re gay and my joke bums you out, let me know. ‘Cause I don’t actually think amusing myself is more important than your feelings. And your telling me about it would be HOW I LEARN].
[It’s embarrassing how embarrassed I am to say I want to fall in love and HAVE A LITTLE FAMILY. That I have to resort to using that word for “balance.” Please, somebody shoot me].
Now, if it’s not too late to get back on track…
Just kidding. We just did a triple tangent on the word “faggot.” THERE’S NO GETTING BACK ON TRACK.
There are other journals scattered about the painting. I allude to officiating my grandpa’s funeral in place of a rabbi (despite my not having grown up Jewish (or anything)). I refer to the statement I wrote on my blog (AND ON INSTAGRAM) right when he died. (It’s good – you should read it). I joke about making excuses for not becoming the MOST SUCCESSFUL ARTIST TO EVER LIVE.
But you get the gist. Money isn’t important but a sense of security is. We all wanna feel safe. We all wanna be able to take care of the people we love (EVEN IF THEY DON’T EXIST YET (and possibly never will)).
Some people think my art is HILARIOUS (and THEY’RE RIGHT) but a lot of them don’t look closely enough to see that’s not all that it is. I’m trying to be taken more seriously as an artist (for the $ame reason$ that thi$ piece i$ all about) but, at the risk of undercutting that, I’ll just say that this painting (like much of my art) is an attempt to find humor in the shit that freaks me the fuck out.
If that’s not the language of a SERIOUS ARTIST, then I’m a hopeless idiot. (And that can’t POSSIBLY be true — right??)
I’m already pretty good at the second part. During my last (very extended relapse) I got an ALLOWANCE from my little sister of $115 a week. That wasn’t enough to cover my drug habit but – by the time I got clean – I’d still somehow managed to save up $6k in my Venmo account. Don’t ask me how. I am the GOLD MEDALIST in the DRUG ADDICT OLYMPICS. ↩︎
The DEATH OF SAMMY THRASHLIFE – but first: my newest painting and its story.
All of This is Just to Get Girls to Like Me | 10/23/25 | acrylic on canvas | 24×36″
“Come inside with me,” Jon said. “I wanna show off how punk you are.”
Ooooo – that made me feel PRETTY COOL. I was fourteen years old and this older kid who played guitar and sang in a punk band thought I was SUPER PUNK.
We went inside THE KFC where he worked and he got his paycheck. When we got back in the car, he explained to me, “Yeah, I don’t really dress punk anymore. There’s no one in this town to be punk for. It’s definitely not gonna get you any girls. It’s still fucking cool though.”
I think the knee-jerk judgmental reaction is that Jon was wrong. That you should be yourself no matter what.1
But Jon was also just a kid navigating adolescence and figuring shit out (even if, to me, he couldn’t have been more of an ELDER STATESMAN; I mean, come on, he was in ELEVENTH GRADE).
(It’s also worth noting that we’re talking about clothing. An expression of identity but not identity itself. It’s not FUNDAMENTALLY IMPORTANT).
I respected him and thought about what he’d said. (OBVIOUSLY IT STUCK WITH ME ‘cause I’m writing about it 25 years later). But I didn’t tone my shit down any. I STILL HAVEN’T. (For better or worse).
The wrong reading of “All of This is Just to Get Girls to Like Me” is that I’m doing anything for that purpose. I’m not. What I am doing is being myself in the loudest manner possible. And I am hoping that these paintings, my writing, my BEHAVIOR, and my style will act as a BEACON to the girls that are already predisposed to finding them attractive. My hope is that all of these things provide a SHORTCUT to girls seeing who I am and what I’m about.
I gotta say: it sure felt like it was a more effective tactic when I was doing this 10 to 12 years ago. My whole SCHTICK is not as attractive at 39 as it was at 28. But that’s okay. I’m a victim of ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT. That’s what addiction does to you. I’m also a victim of PUNK ROCK and its attendant Peter Pan Syndrome. I likely always will be.
Which is ALSO OKAY. As much as I sometimes get down on myself, I fucking like me. I THINK I’M SUPER COOL (and definitely still REALLY, REALLY PUNK).
When the time is right, the right girl will come along, see, and appreciate that too. ‘Cause I’m not super interested in girlS anymore. I want THE girl. (Even if I don’t know who she is yet).
Speaking of which, the text that’s actually in the painting reads:
ALL OF THIS IS JUST TO GET GIRLS TO LIKE ME (More precisely, a girl. The right girl).
Do you THINK I’M SPECIAL YET? Do you wanna be my girlfriend now?
(Can’t you tell how thoughtful I am? Don’t you hear THE MOUNTAIN GOATS SONG I’ve got playing?)
And then, written on the side of the canvas:
So I decided to cannibalize my own idea. One of my next paintings was gonna be called: “Girls Don’t Like Boys, Girls Like Weed and Target.” But let’s be real – that’s ‘cause it would SELL. There’s no EMOTIONAL TRUTH in that. So, instead, I made it part of this painting by filling space with Target logos and pot leaves. And now I can joke that it’s SUBLIMINAL MESSAGING.”
I advertise the borderline personality disorder diagnosis all the time, but I also suffer from a really serious disorder that CAUSES ME TO THINK I’M FUNNY. With god’s help, maybe one day they’ll find the cure.
It’s been 19 months since I got clean and almost a year since I crept out from the shadows and rejoined the world. Everything’s gone really well for me in that time. But I’m older than I was in ROUND ONE of my art career and Sammy thrashLife feels even sillier to me now than when I first jokingly coined it. So I’m in the process of “rebranding” with my real name.
The new logo, which only took two hours to make. (Not impressed?? Are you suggesting it shouldn’t take me that long to write my own name??)
I think I fell into a trap where I thought everything about me needed to pull focus. That I needed every element of my presentation to cast out a line to hook someone. “I have borderline personality disorder. I used to manage with heroin. Now I make art instead.” That’s all true but maybe I don’t need to LEAD with the backstory. Maybe I should let my art speak for itself. (IT CERTAINLY HAS PLENTY TO SAY). And then if people are interested, they can discover the rest.
So I’ve launched samnorth.art (and samnorthart.com, for anyone whose brain just CAN’T HANDLE a dot-art url) and will be building those out soon. And I’m gonna phase out “Sammy thrashLife” on all my banners, fliers, social media, etc.
The new site may not have a blog or a webstore. It’ll still have the statements for each painting and drawing but they’ll likely be a little more tucked away, rather than the focus. If I’m being HONEST, all of these changes are aimed at the way I’m perceived by high end galleries and collectors. I’ve got no interest in changing my artwork, changing my personality, or changing my BEHAVIOR, but if some minor adjustments to my presentation help to get me taken more seriously: COOL.
If that at all concerns you, please know that I wrote the statement for another painting last night, it directly addressed my desire to be “taken more seriously,” and yet I STILL COULDN’T HELP MYSELF from making it as raw, as fucking ridiculous, and as embarrassing as anything I’ve ever made. So much so that I’m nervous to share it. So if you’re a fan of all this, exactly as it is – don’t fret; Sam North is very much the exact same artistand writer as Sammy thrashLife.
