D.L.A.T.Y.Y.C.K.Y.Y.T.C.

June 4, 2026

D.L.A.T.Y.Y.C.K.Y.Y.T.C. | 5-24-2026 | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas | 24 x 30 in

I thought I’d be living at Tranquil Shores for at least another two months but when I went into the clinical office that morning, I found out I only had ten days before my discharge.

I felt shattered. Caught completely off-guard. I walked back to the residential property alone and remembered a conversation I’d had with my sister 18 months earlier.

I’d just been released from the hospital, following an attempted overdose. “You can’t kill yourself, Sam. That’s so selfish,” she told me.

Fuck you, I thought. “You know what’s really selfish, Racey? Expecting me to endure this kind of pain every day – to keep on with this shitty, empty life – devoid of any happiness whatsoever – so that you can call me on the phone two or three times a year.”

You wouldn’t be reading this right now if my life hadn’t EVENTUALLY IMPROVED, but – back then – my life hurt. Every day was painful. I felt isolated, hopelessly addicted to heroin, and lost. I could see no way out. It didn’t have to be that way, but I didn’t yet have the emotional tools I needed to do anything about it. 

While I managed to turn my life around, some people suffer for decades on end. And as bitter and angry as I was when Racey said that to me, I’m still not sure we owe it to anyone else to stay stuck in a life like that.

That said – unless you’re in chronic pain or suffering from debilitating, UNABATING mental illness, you probably shouldn’t kill yourself. Not unless you’ve exhausted ALL other options. Because – as dark and miserable as life can be (and BELIEVE ME, I KNOW), it can also be pretty great.

If you’re truly ready to die, truly ready to give up on everything, then you’ve got nothing left to lose. So – before you kill yourself – lose it. Blow up your life before ending it. Choose uncertainty over unhappiness. Suicide is usually the consequence of feeling trapped. But you’re not trapped.

End the relationship. Quit your job. Break the lease. Disconnect your phone. Move across the country. Do whatever it takes to get out of your rut.

In my admittedly limited experience, when I make choices that demonstrate love (for myself and for others), things have a way of working out.

If all of this sounds impossible, I assure you: it’s easier than you think. If it sounds terrifying, do it anyway.

Worst case scenario: you were right, nothing gets better, and suicide is still an option.

DON’T LET ANYONE TELL YOU OTHERWISE.

But it’s not a very good option.

Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

This painting is what I call an UPCYCLE. I took the concept from one of my very early paintings and used it for this new one. The one I’m working on now is gonna be another one.

ON A RELATED NOTE, I’ve got three fairly recent paintings that I decided weren’t quite good enough. They were CLOSE but not quite. In the past, I believed in leaving each painting as a snapshot of where I was at right when I made it. Fuck that. I don’t wanna hang or sell something I’m not 100% proud of and happy with. So I went back to work on those three paintings and now I’m even more excited about them than I was when they were brand new.

DLATYYCKYYTC is so titled as a nod to IYDKMRNIGE. I can rattle off either acronym LIKE IT’S NOTHIN’. (Yes, I’ve practiced).

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.

You’ll Miss Me When I’m Gone (and Other Lies)

November 24, 2025

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” | 13 May 2026* | acrylic on canvas | 48×36″

It’s the morning of my birthday, I’m in a tiff with my friends, and – even though I’m generally having a good time right now – that conflict is adding a dark undercurrent to my feelings.

I just had a moment – and the feeling that I miss having a person. That one person who I can share everything with. I thought about how my last person just flew across the country to go into rehab again. And then I started thinking about nurturing sick relationships, which brought me a sinister kinda delight. And THEN it occurred to me that I could shoot up today and no one would ever know. And I doubt I will, but I still HAD THE THOUGHT.

It’s around 5pm now and Brandon texted to ask if I’m coming over. (Not when, but if). I asked about THE PUMPKIN at the heart of the embarrassingly petty conflict between us.

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. I’m not feeling anything like DEEP DESPAIR, but I am feeling a little like “fuck everyone else in the world.” I leave town soon so now it’ll be at least 5 weeks before I even have a chance to see Brandon and Amanda again. 

Those two are my best friends. They took me in when I was at my worst and helped me get my life together when everyone else told them not to take a chance on me. Without them, I wouldn’t be making art or building a career. I wouldn’t have any reason to leave town for 5 weeks.

But knowing they haven’t realized they just missed their last chance to see me until December – that gives me a sinister kinda satisfaction too. I’m PUNISHING THEM.

This painting’s not 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 feeling suicidal BUT I STILL ENJOY THE SENTIMENT.

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. 

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone?” I mean – sure, sort of. But not really. People move on.

The small 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 wrote it with my ex in mind. She says she loves me but – even before she flew off to rehab – she wasn’t with me. I don’t even know that I wanted her to be, but I did want her to want to (be with me).

That’s dumb ego shit. I need to drop it. All the “sinister” stuff – that’s dumb too, but I ENJOY IT SO MUCH. And it might be an inexplicable part of who I am. I’m sort of okay with that because I think it’s a coping mechanism and – so far as coping mechanisms go – I’ve had worse.

You’ll Miss Me When I’m Gone was painted from 27 June 2025 through 30 August 2025, with additions on 4 and 18 November 2025, and major revisions on 13 May 2026.

I’ve historically had the policy that once a painting is finished, it is locked in amber as a snapshot of where I was as a person (and an artist) at that moment in time. But I’ve been thinking more seriously about my career lately and want all of my work to be of the highest caliber. After this painting was finished, I wrote long journal entries that I transcribed onto the canvas and used as the foundation for this statement. Months later, I repainted 15-20% of the canvas and cut most of the journals from the statement. They were PRETTY TRIVIAL and I no longer think my work needs embarrassingly specific details to be interesting. My standards for color, composition, and expressivity, on the other hand… KEEP RISING.

POOR FOREVER

November 20, 2025

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 anyfamily 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. 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. But I don’t know and I’ll probably never look into it, 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. And it would be super nice to know that I’m not gonna die in poverty.

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 has continued to TREND UP. My bank account wouldn’t blow anyone’s mind, but it’s more than most of my friends or family have.

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 cash 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.

[Please excuse my use of the word “faggot” but — as we all know — there’s nothing gayer than falling in love with a girl].

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. I joke about making excuses for not becoming the MOST SUCCESSFUL ARTIST TO EVER LIVE.

The gist is that 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 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 just might be POOR FOREVER.

I painted POOR FOREVER between 8/31/2025 and 10/12/2025, but then went back and did more work on it in May 2026. I wrote this statement on November 17th, 2025.

All of This is Just to Get Girls to Like Me

November 18, 2025

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.

  1. I don’t think it’s fair to direct this at Jon, but a PARTICULAR SONG comes to mind. ↩︎

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 artist and writer as Sammy thrashLife.

Sorry for Overdosing in Your Bathroom

October 16, 2024

“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.

This painting was started after I got clean, interrupted by my second relapse, and then finished in Round 3 (2019). The overdose which inspired its title, however, happened all the way back in 2016. I’ve not been excited to tell the story – hence the delay.

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 trauma for 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!

Run Free, Spit Fire, Yell at Clouds

October 6, 2024

“Run Free, Spit Fire, Yell at Clouds.” 1/11/18. Acrylic paint. 40×30″.

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.

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