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

It’s probably a consequence of the specific “world” I grew up in but I don’t really know too many people who are succeeding. A lot of my friends struggle. Some aren’t especially happy. 

I don’t envy my friends that put in 40 hours on shit they don’t particularly like, to make some dipshit (that’s dumber than they are) richer than they are. 

And then they pay rent. To a LANDLORD. Because he owns the properties. Inherited, or bought with money most of us will never have. 

The system is fucked. AND WE’RE (mostly) WHITE KIDS. (Or more recently/accurately, white “adults”). We’ve got SOME DEGREE OF PRIVILEGE.

Then again, like attracts like; my friends are like me. And being a working-class, too-smart-for-your-own-good basketcase isn’t exactly a recipe for UPWARD CLASS MOBILITY.

There’s this lyric: “the decks are stacked and the house always wins when the dealer’s crooked … but we’ve been counting cards. We’re fucking fed up; shit’s gone too far.”²

I love that line. The world’s gonna cheat us and we’ve still gotta play the hand we’re dealt, so fuck THEIR rules. We’ll play it our way, with every trick we’ve got.

I often describe my art career as “A PRETTY GOOD SCAM.” That’s honestly what it feels like.

I wake up every day and do whatever the fuck I want. I write about myself and paint funny faces in ridiculous colors – and then I get paid for it. I’m not rich, but I’m not poor either. In the last year, I’ve loaned or given money to friends and family that have fucking jobs.

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

When I started down this path, I had zero technical ability as an artist (AND I’VE NOT GAINED MUCH SINCE THEN). I’ve refined my eye for color and composition, but what I have most of all is a personality, a worldview, and the ability and willingness to articulate it (in a way that other people find funny, insightful, and resonant). That’s been the key ingredient in my success. I’m the only person in the world who can do exactly what I do.

But my broken brain, personality, worldview, and INABILITY TO EVER SHUT THE FUCK UP also led me to heroin. And heroin has eaten years of my life and taken me to horribly traumatic places that I’d tell you about IF I WANTED TO START CRYING RIGHT NOW.

Ultimately, heroin led me to expressive art therapy. Which I hated because I was bad at it. But I really liked the way the other mental cases responded when it’d be my turn in group to talk about what I’d made. They laughed when I wanted. They were affected when I wanted. And they fed me praise.

Returning to the world, I needed an income, but I’d never successfully held a job. I’m INSUBORDINATE.

Though I didn’t have the first clue if it was even possible, or how to go about it, I decided to see if anyone would buy my art. Turns out it was possible right outta the gate.

Three years later, I experienced the worst trauma of my life, fell the fuck apart, relapsed for 8 years, and resigned myself to failure and addiction forever. Until my girlfriend decided the future might look better with someone else. So I got clean (TO SHOW HER) and started painting again. I anxiously anticipated it blowing up in my face, but didn’t know what else to do. 

Wanna know the really fucked up part? A year and change later, I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I wake up excited each day. I’m excited for the future.

Monday through Thursday is a lot of writing, inventory, accounting, logistics, booking, website and bus maintenance.

Friday through Sunday, I set-up a killer display of THE BEST FUCKING ART EVER MADE and I work on my latest painting while singing along to all my favorite punk rock, as strangers give me their money in exchange for the products of my mental illness, my personality, my traumas, and my victories. 

A lot of my life’s been pretty miserable. I’ve got some dark stories. I’ve lived through dark YEARS.

But “The Luckiest Little Shit in the World” is a victory product. It’s a victory lap on 2025, when I relaunched my art career, killed it, and had a fucking blast. It’s really not even fair how much fun I’m having and how much the world rewards me for it. I really do feel like the luckiest little shit in the world.

FOR NOW. Fear and anxiety are never far from my mind. These good feelings are fairly new and I’m still sorta broken – I’m still me – and thank fucking god for that.

It’s the key ingredient.

1. There’s a lot here that calls to mind earlier work. The other paintings featured in this blog entry are the ones with statements I’ve hyperlinked in the body of the text. ↩︎
2. The song I’m referencing is “Countin’ Cards” by Escape from the Zoo: ↩︎
3. Nope – it’s in the statement for “All the Time Lost,” which I’ve not yet published online. ↩︎