“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 called a 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 257^th 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??)

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1. 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. ↩︎