Although my low point in motivation isn't bad.

I've just given up looking for work. My rib hurts, and I've given up giving a shit.

At least I have a big dick. I have to laugh to myself. I heard a woman with great depression say to me "Well at least my tits are big".

I've been painting in bed and my art is so twisted. I swear this shit is going in museums.

I have lost so much weight I look sickly. I look toned in photographs though.

Really hoping someday someone comes across my things and puts them in the Guggenheim.

I think of everything. No picture do I take do I not master beautifully. I think about my audience.

Bonafide yes I am. I like knowing this about myself.

I don't need a job because they're stupid. I need money.

I am sad about Amy Winehouse. For all of us living it is our moral obligation to live well. It is our job to be happy, healthy, and beautiful.

I am on my back wounded. Sometimes I almost cry out of sheer horror of what has happened. But I never feel that sorry for myself. I understand on a higher level that I need to suffer sometimes to do good.

When they write the book on my life there will be very exciting chapters. It helps explain why I am capable of conjuring terror and eliciting the softest beauty.

I guess my point is I am not afraid of life. It wounds me, but not terribly. I have access to my feelings without having them kill me, like Amy Winehouse. My heart hurts for her.

I wish more people made it through the fire.