would you like fries with This?

it's not painting, it's drawing.

i'm going back to drawing. big.
the first thing i'm drawing is me shooting myself in the face.


i used to have this crutch mantra for when i needed comforting, something close to like autistic rocking-back-and-forth, for general discomfort and self-discipline: i hate everything. but fast and final "ihateeverythingihateeverythingihateeverything." and not just this or that. i wanted it all to implode, explode, didn't matter. i wanted it all to suddenly snap like a stanley kubrick edit to somewhere white and vaguely humming. a placeholder to know you're at the void, something like zero. a physical event to drive it on home that, yes, the game the game, you know, the game. thank you, consolation prize.

so, ok, so then there's how i feel about passivity and how easily the anger slips from being my project to never even passing by committee. outlets abound and i find my avenging falling, failing, receding and depleting. but, like most real hate, it's really just passion, and i what i really don't want i sincerely don't give a shit about, don't even bother feeling about. so, i want what i hate - i want to hate it, right? right, so, but i have this problem with it and i want it to be affected by me. i want to put a stamp on the harm i wish for it. i want it to learn. deal with me, i've had to deal with you. whatever it is, i'm caring and, by god, i'm going to make you care, too. unpleasantly.

ah, but this not hate for the man on the street. not dogs or corporations or authorities. not effectables. we're talking decisions and outcomes. cause and effect. lines on the ruler, the timeline, etched. gah. so, like, regret. no, i don't want to take it back, change it. i don't want it at all. this is all what i make of it. so what happens when i'm not passive, and i shoot myself in the face?

my mantra became me shooting myself in the face.

over and over. BAMBAMBAMBAMBAM. not multiple times in the face; each time was the same single shot. sudden, muffled, pressurized, messy. the only thing i could get to allow me to fall asleep, stop thinking. sometimes, when results of time plagued my day, i could stop and lean against a wall and picture it like flickering film loop. different angles. first person, third person. slightly hovering over the shoulder. and if that was not enough, i whispered under my breath "shoot myself in the face...shoot myself in the face..." this was comforting.

my interpretation of control in an uncontrollable life. i bring myself into this space every day, i can damn well bring myself right back out.

and yet, i am not suicidal. i like life. i like my life. i don't want to go. this stuff is cool, here.

but perhaps it's like claustrophobia. i like knowing this isn't required. when you gotta go, you gotta go. i know a guy; he's got a plan. a time, a method. i like this guy, he's a good guy. i wish there were more of him, not impending less. but it's his, not mine. this could all just be wrong for him - all of it. and what are we but some decision by two other people. even if that choice was just to come inside for a sec, have a martini, there it is. here i am. whatever the course of events, choices were made and here we all are.
hi, hello. what if the party sucks?

but, anyway, i'm drawing again, finally. it's been a long time. i like to think about it already being done and how i'll look at it and imagine if it was photograph and how quiet it would be afterwards. i'm excited.