by Jason John Bartholomew
I said I was an artist. I never said I was any good at it. And so what? Art doesn’t need to be any good to make a living. Hell, it doesn’t even need to be any good to become famous, influential even, or to make a shitload of money. Excuse the hell outta me for feeling entitled to make a living doing something that I don’t hate and isn’t so soul-suck awful I have to beat steet hookers into comas or get into the Good News of Jesus, Our Lord and Savior, in a really toxic, predatory way just to try and vent off some of the poison.
Dude, what do want from me? I’m just trying to keep it honest, man, and support my habits in a way that doesn’t make me need to jack all your shit, because then you get all pissy and bent out of shape. So shut the fuck up and buy some crappy art so I can go get high and flash my butter nuts at strangers in the park and you can go do that whatever that results in you being so smug and jackable flush.
Oh yeah. Right. No, I get it. This is where you draw the line. The world is full of just absolute mountains of useless and discarded, machined-uniform, plastic, toxic crap, and there’s a giant cargo hull full of fresh new wonky widgets sitting in the harbor, but this is where you draw the line. At me. Hawking this stuff I made myself right here local. Well, no butter nuts for you! Can I interest you, instead, in a putting your lips around the extremely rare white fuzzy navel orange grown in the shade of a pair, um, I mean pear?
Sept 5, 2017