Oh, god, how long has it been since I put pen to paper and recounted any of the amazing adventures into which my artwork has led me? Yes, some would say landed me – as in landing me in the shit – but I don’t see it that way. I rise above even my dead and bleeding selves whose mother has betrayed them and thrown them to the wolves and forced to move out of her apartment and find a real job and pay back awesome school loans accrued in the pursuit of the most important thing in the universe: my artwork.
Gentle reader, for I know that you are very gentle indeed. I can imagine you now, touching yourself as you read these words, sitting there alone in the park under a willow tree in the dappled sunlight of a spring day and the ducks nearby flapping in the pond and you touch yourself and sigh a sigh of profound Romance as you wish that I would rise dripping out of the pond water, slosh through the shallows, magically produce a margarita and pepperoni pizza out of my trousers, and then bend over you and cover you with kisses.
Or, maybe you are a gentle reader-man who is reading like a voyeur watches as an Adonis rises out of the Central Park duck pond and sloshes through the shallows towards a beautiful female, woes her with a margarita and a pepperoni pizza and – until this voyeur actually saw it for himself for the first time – unimaginable feats of Romance and passion. Mind blowing, okay? This gentle man-reader will, no doubt, return home with tears in his eyes knowing that he will never obtain such feats of Romans and passion – not even after a lifetime of practice – so this man-reader goes home and kills himself. Which means that, sooner or later, gorgeous margaria-drinking women are my only readers because everyone else is dead, so I might as well address myself only to them — to you, my sweet one! – as you sit there touching yourself in the shade of a tree in the park.
Where was I? Oh, yes, I was about to tell you about what happened to me when my infamous, evil mother blackmailed me into stealing her sister’s memoir. I had to travel all the way to South America to a land called Portugal and it was there that I encountered a most harrowing and bitter adventure for which I still lick my wounds emotionally as well as some physical licking, but not much. It is mostly emotional damage that wounded me, but I’m working hard to turn the wounds into beautiful artwork, which will soon be shown at a gallery out on Staten Island or maybe in New Jersey. The New Jersey gallery hasn’t called me back yet.