Antithesis of Art MMIII - July 27, 2026

“Pearls on the ground,

Messes that don’t get cleaned up for days,

Breeze through a screen door…”

February 25, 2026, 4:30 PM, Home

If a joke is written and performed in the middle of the woods, does anyone care?...

A DATA STORY February Becomes March

There is only one thing that surrounds me recently - haunting me with every glance around this place. As if trapped in a white room where there is nothing but the same everywhere you look. This life requires a re-brand, so to speak.

There have been many attempts to “consolidate and organize ALL my DATA”, digital and physical. A task that truly has no beginning or end, thus, has been insurmountable for years. Just another constant theme of obsession which overloads my mind. Procrastinating this impossible job scrambles my motivation system and prevents me from doing anything else. How do I uninstall this application from my CPU, I simply do not have enough energy or storage to run all these background processes. My shit is overheating all the fucking time. It’s not like I’m accomplishing anything, might as well wipe the software and start over… but how?

Throughout my time with Tinkerbell Boy, the four years we were together, my entire existence became about him. I dealt with this in the most counterintuitive way after arriving in Austin - by ignoring the past and building a new mythos around another man, because that was all I knew how to do. My adult woman art has reflected whoever I was with at the time. This has created an imaginary trap which only I see around me… closing in.  

“The fucking stickers kill me. They are so extremely powerful, image and repetition. I was obsessed. That's just obvious…

Rumpel, specifically, has remained a strong theme in my mind; constantly cycling through feelings of shame, embarrassment, and hatred for ever having been with him in any way - in all the ways I was.

Last night, while downing two bottles of wine, I started cutting, disposing, and sewing artwork from last year into one commemorative piece. I've never sewn paper together, but it feels surprisingly natural and satisfying.

I started making stickers last year and immediately began decorating my things, which has become a regrettable decision. First, it looks very childish and tacky. Secondly, even the ones I didn’t make still hold so much power over me because of the memory of where they came from. Today, I will continue working and finish the process, there will be no more open-ended projects.

After all these months I am finally covering the memories, throwing things away, and clearing out my phone. Hopefully, my heart will release its resentment once I’m not being reminded of the past so often. There is no way to erase memories, but soon they won’t be physically represented in my personhood...” February 17, 2026

The results are a bound collection of scraps from 2022-24 and a “quilt” of 2025.  In memory of love and heartbreak over lost years, people and places. The sentiment is unrequited.

In early March, the weather was exceptional. I found myself at Zilker picking up weed from Gunna and met new friends. I am not giving up; I am sober from alcohol for days now and smoked the rest of my weed last night... is this then end?

“Data clutter accumulates like dust falling from my skin. Often, I way overtake footage, don't process it after, then move on. Deleting pictures and videos feels so very good. I do not want to remember certain things and people or have an abundance of data that is totally excessive for the subject matter.

I'm still not feeling so well. My stomach is all turned up in knots, in a mess. Not that it hasn't been for a long time, but I sense that all is equalizing and returning to homeostasis.” February 27, 2026

Maturing is realizing that not everything you make or think is precious, most of it is worthless unless acted upon to create utility for other people. I will not lose track of the development of this external drive the way I have let my data consume me every time before. Either it rots around you and ruins your life, or you digest and pass whatever value is to be gleaned. None of this shit can be that important, I have lived fine without touching my computer for months at a time. It has a virus right now, so that is the other thing that has been upsetting me. My work is cut out for me, as always. Going forward, I will keep track of my data and continually put things in their proper functioning place.

The final delete so that my broken heart may cauterize. I have undergone numerous projects of destruction and reconstruction, with a heavy emphasis on disposal.

Today, I got into contact with LB today through a national prison messaging app. There are no videos of him on my phone, our relationship was very short lived. We spent a week isolated together in a hotel room having long conversations on ketamine in the pitch-black. I remember singing “Florida Kilos” to him while he cut lines of coke on the counter, that was everything my teenage self ever wanted. LB was the third man I ever slept with amid breaking things off completely with Rumpel. One month of summer 2025 has defined my mental environment for the last 6 months.

The last year and a half of my camera roll takes the viewer through a national journey. I want 2026 to see even more of the country and new relationships. I am letting go of a lot of pain and suffering by deleting the digital archive which describes it. Mostly, having to do with fuck ass men. God, whatever was I thinking? Yes, they lead to different experiences but damn, more trouble than they are worth. That’s all I have to say.

Tinkerbell is the hardest to delete, even the videos of him being a menace. There’s video from January 2025 where he looks so happy, skiing in the snow and playing in the living room. His mood changed and early in the morning on January 11^th, my 24^th birthday, he begins to hit the camera - it goes black, there’s a struggle and I start to scream… it’s just too good to get rid of!! So cinematic.

There was a screenshot of an Airbnb map of Austin, it was beginning to seem so simple. Tinkerbell went into a blind rage on January 23 and destroyed my office. This was the nail in the coffin for life as we both knew it - I left eleven days later.

On February 5^th, I stepped out of my car onto the Austin pavement in my vans. Those shoes had seen most of my skating career and used to walk beside Tinkerbell.

Years ago, it was impossible for me to throw away old shoes since they held such immense energy, especially when you wear the same pair every day. Now, I let them go grudgingly but in a timely manner - such a change from the hoarder I once was. Though, I still wonder what becomes of my trash sometimes: A painful chill runs up my sternum as I imagine the shoes compressing in a garbage pile somewhere near Austin, so far from their home and memories. I was reminded of them by a picture taken in east side - they were all crinkled up in the background, just like my self-respect.

***

I met Rumpel right away, though it would take a few days to be sucked into his vortex. The tiny house was a clearance section boho-themed box. One of the most regrettable things I did was clean it numerous times, becoming way too familiar with its oddities: no running water, a grimy hobbit of a man, and his old lumpy dog that I fell in love with (both, I suppose). I had never seen so much weed, tobacco or beer in my life. From his tobacco tins to pounds of weed and kegs stacked to the ceiling at the brewery, he showed what abundance of consumption really looked like. He thought of himself as a pirate, but really, he was a salesman, a leprechaun, more like Rumpelstiltskin. Every type of magic you can imagine, he worked in the mud.

The first thing to go was Rumpel once I finally got started with this chore. The worst one of them all had me on the hook the longest. Unfortunately, that man will always be ingrained in my first impression of Austin. We bonded over plants and animals. All that footage feels very odd, like it should have never been taken in the first place and belongs to an entirely different person’s digital history. My brain couldn’t deal with the dissonance, so I just ignored all of it until now. Delete!

I went to my first festival in April, which was the highlight of our time together. In May, there were some videos of him holding a firefly while lighting a hand rolled cigarette (as he did at least 20 times a day). He’s smoking in most pictures and videos of him - also, drinking the same flavor of IPA. We spent time at barton together in June and he looked happy in pictures next to his dog. Candidly, he usually looked dead-eyed and creepy.

For some reason, I seemed happy though it was the most miserable time of my life. If I remember correctly, the last time we ever had sex he fell asleep inside and on top of me and removing him was more difficult than one would imagine just looking at him. For whatever reason, I found him to be good at sex which is the only rationale I can find for explaining why things lasted so long with him.

Unfortunately, Rumpel’s contribution doesn’t end so easily. My entanglement with Adam’s Family (and company) began over summer. He would continue to be an issue because of his involvement with Morticia. By the end of August, I crashed out and had to go home to Virginia. If only Morticia had never called me that day in September while I was on sabbatical. We were all smoking cigarettes outside (1500 miles apart) concocting a foul plan that would ruin the rest of my year.  Rumpel had to break his lease, and they figured I would take it over, which I did. Anything they ever wanted from me, they got.

Finally, I’ve thrown away the lingering pieces of him and am still covering the graphic evidence. There were a few days when all I was dealing with was stickers and making sure every appearance of him and his dog was covered. Then, I destroyed the “mushroom book” which he gave me exactly one year before as the inscription stated. The final work is a 9x12 paper quilt sewn together with cotton thread. All those loose ends are stowed away indefinitely, closure for a loss that was intangible.

“Rumpel gave it to me one year ago in February 2025. Before we ever met, he drew a heart on the upper corner of the first page. It shows the progression of love, heartbreak, and regrouping. Cutting it up and putting it together again was the final stage of processing that trauma which seems to be ever present in my mind recently.

The first four pages are from life, mostly drawings from the yard where I would pace back and forth while smoking. Maybe the “mandy trail” of dead grass is still there, my footsteps do linger everywhere I have been…

The next four pages, from summer 2025, I painted on ketamine in Flower’s room. Sometimes I wondered how many drugs came and went through there, 1000s of individual doses, maybe dozens of different kinds. Of the four men, one is dead and the other three are in prison currently. Seven of us were in a one-bedroom apartment, with a pitbull too. Every day, there were shenanigans breaking through from other dimensions. The K world feels like an extra-real reality, though is adjacent to the present, and thus inaccessible. At least one person would be thrown from the front door every month, guaranteed.

In late august, I sat under fluorescent lights in the workshop and scribbled on eight undated pages. I had nowhere to go and felt every bit of that- it lives in my mind like an emblem of rock bottom. This entire situation was an attempt to heal my heart. Between Tinkerbell, Rumpel, and then LB, it was like a spiritual shipwreck. Morbid figures of speech written in neon letters over a scrubbed- black background paint the image of unrest. The finale of my self-destruction which left me homeless in Austin.

I was in Virginia for all of September and returned in October only to rent a room that was previously Rumpel’s. The room was disgusting, small, and smelled like shit – just like Rumpel. Though, there was a garage which I found myself in most of the time, it was the only place I was productive. There was just enough space to roller skate and do cocaine but also write and work on my clothes.

The final notes from 2025 were written by the light at the end of the tunnel. Returning to Austin in October, I started making business plans including everything from printmaking to jewelry, clothing and custom skateboards.

Another drug-induced crash out with the next man led me on a month-long detour through New Mexico over new year’s. It didn’t feel like it, but leaving Austin again was the catalyst for starting a proper life when I returned in January.” – February 21, 2026

I started getting a little too excited about destroying my artwork and writing, as usual. I had to remind myself to take it easy and go do something else.

***

Edgar is a wild child and bestowed a ton of data upon me. He took countless pictures and videos, mostly of himself, downloaded games to my phone and started using it to sports gamble with my money. He has a good heart, always reminding me of Tinkerbell because of his childish demeanor and existence. I only loved him when he administered cocaine directly to me. 

Once we made it to Las Cruces, I wanted to go straight back to Austin but was exhausted and having withdrawals. Edgar convinced me to stay the night; I ended up being there for a month. I returned to Austin on January 18^th, 2026.

We’ve been talking on the phone for weeks since I left New Mexico. He is the one always reaching out and says that he is “attached to me” and that I’m “his person”, but I don’t see how. We served each other’s purpose. He took me on a long sandy detour with no beaches in sight. Coming back to Austin felt like coming home, finally. Going between here and Virginia was never satisfying. I will see the whole terrain of this country in this decade, and travel by every means.

“DATA CONCLUSIONS” (ON EMOTIONAL AND PHYSICAL HOARDING)

White knuckles around anything that was ever mine, mine, mine.

Growing up, my emotional regulation was dependent on the things around me which I could control. Then, it was drugs and men: two things that will trick you into thinking you’re in control while running game on your body and money.  Whether it be people, places, or things, I cannot be without whatever it is.

What has changed my neurology the most in the last five years was “unhoarding” my life – a process which took years and eventually ended with me leaving home. I began to associate my mental condition with the physical world around me, thus stuck in a state of restlessness with no reprieve. There is no way out, the entire perceptual prison must be burned down.

In February 2026, I found my own place that is healthy and beautiful. In solitude, rejoicing with all the versions of Mandy that I have known. Finally, the grief becomes unreal by controlling what is blatantly in my face. Taking the memories of a broken heart off of life support; setting her free.

It’s almost like I’m in a toxic codependent relationship with myself, whereby I only seek validation and attention from one person, everyone else can fuck off. This is the same person who has hurt me so badly my entire life, the one I am most groomed to appease. This is replicated in every iteration of trying to socialize or fraternize. It goes well enough at first, but if someone doesn’t immediately exert inordinate control, then they will never pull me from my own grasp. My world is defined by suffering; you must be an abuser to capture my attention.

This leads me to the unfortunate admission that I have only had sex while intoxicated. A natural part of my sobriety (one that I didn’t fully contemplate) is celibacy. It would seem like a lot of my adult memories are fully under the influence. That’s a major, yet unspoken factor in why it is so difficult to stop. It’s what you cannot see that is so terrifying when getting sober.

I’m building an image of mandy one line at a time. Whether it is physical drawings and writing or digital photos and videos, I consume my observations and transform them continually to maintain output. Without change, there is no reason to document anything. The change in what is being documented and the change in the documentation itself - what is the purpose of any of this? Why did I record the video, write the note or draw the picture? What was it for…

Deleting a picture always feels like deleting the girl who took it, because she wanted to be remembered as much as what she took. But I am not that girl, and she doesn’t exist anymore if not for the photo itself. Maybe my attachment to that life is just towards the data that remains… well, hopefully. To be rid of the physical evidence and left only with spiritual strings. Two ships passing in the night once again.

Now and again, I think of the things I have gotten rid of. Clothes, artwork, journals, etc. I can’t tell what the sentiment is at this moment, one of nostalgia maybe. It feels like a glitch.

FINAL BOSS OF PREDATORS… Winter becomes Summer

“Tinkerbell went into a psych ward for a few days and was re-diagnosed with bipolar one. He was having a complete psychotic episode about war, death, and betrayal. He was so scared someone was coming after him that he checked himself into a psychiatric hospital. He's on some new meds that are apparently working for him.

Last night, I went out to a bar downtown and met a random man, another person adrift. He's almost 60 years old. He's an electrical engineer. We talked for about three hours. I learned a lot about this person for seemingly no reason while drinking four Moscow Mules and smoking his cigarettes. It was a good night, followed by skating and dancing on my own.” - March 6, 2026

The second night, I went back to the same bar downtown looking for something else. Immediately, Pilot creeped up behind me and started whispering in my ear.

Three days later, I emerged from the bender with a new predator to face down. Would I resist his attempts at trapping and using me, or would I succumb to his plans? My only saving grace was that he didn’t live in Austin but multiple states away.

“It’s going to take such a huge effort to overcome what has been affecting my soul so badly for all these years… Where do I even begin. I don’t think I can do this right now to be honest.” - March 12, 2026

“Plano is surprisingly clean, organized, and green…I cannot be idle anymore; the devil keeps finding me.

I've been sober since Tuesday? I don't know. All I remember is extreme sickness following the absolute wildest weekend I have ever had, at least sexually. It will stay that way for a long time. The separation has been excruciating at certain points, especially in the mornings. Only bad things happen on Fifth and Sixth, and all the rest of them for that matter. Fourth Street may be the only okay clubs and bars.

There are so many better places in this world than Austin. It seems like that city is just the bottom of the barrel for everything and every type of human, a beacon calling to the self-obsessed, mentally ill, and misanthropic people around the country. Maybe that just a reflection of me at this moment… - March 13, 2026. Plano, Texas.

On March 14 in the early afternoon, I remember recounting an entire story which memory no longer serves. It was lost to time and space, deleted by some higher power.

Pilot was doing the absolute most to convince me to drop my entire life and serve him and his desires. It seemed like an escape, a person sent from the universe to save me and fix everything. He was not convincing enough, though it took about a month to unlatch that leech from my ass. Men always tell on themselves; I have learned to take them at their word.

“I don't even know. I am going to have to come up with a lie. How does one explain away all the shameful behavior?” - March 17, 2026

“Pilot left a few days ago on the equinox. The last thing I heard from him was that he told his mother about me, and she said, "What are you doing?” Which is about how I am feeling about all this. I made new friends throughout this entire sex-capade, though I’m not sure how fruitful those relationships will be. What’s a couple more weeks down the drain compared to half my 20’s so far?

The energy seems to be kindling in my body-a sense of rebirth impending. It's at the tip of my tongue, my fingers, just out of reach, but right in front of me. It's still dark in this place, but somewhere out there is a guiding light.

I can't believe how fucked up things had to get for me to finally let go. But I'm so serious this time. I can feel it. I cannot go back to where I was.

Painting is my next journey. So many years of experience just to feel like a kid starting out. It will take a lot of time to really be who I am. So, I better figure out how to get there in style.” – March 22, 2026

APRIL

Throughout Tinkerbell’s entire breakdown and the immediate aftermath, I kept in regular communication with him. He calls or I call back every other day. It takes its toll on me; there were many days that I was irreparably drained after consoling him. The same shit over and over, exactly like all of this expect with no product at the end. Forever spiraling about what could have been if things were just a little bit different…

“Life is like a dream; only the emergent meaning is present in the end. Peppered with glimpses of still images and scenes that filled the time. I wonder how important the specific details are, and how much of my life would remain the same with other concurrent circumstances. Is it only the timing and intensity of experiences that is effective in making change?” - April 3, 2026

Should I visit LB in jail? Pilot is still trying to lure me out, he may convince me if I give him the chance. My need to suffer under someone’s thumb is starting to fuck off, hopefully I haven’t just passed it onto some other poor soul. In my own space and no obligations to anyone, any man, why do I keep trying to make myself miserable?  

“Maybe I will regret not taking Pilot up on his offer, but it seems like a bullet has been dodged. His proposition is just too far outside my imagination, inversely, I can see myself doing it all without him:

First, it’s relatively easy to become a pilot, which is what he was trying to convince me to do. Once beginning that process, I would then ask my parents for a “starter amphibious plane”, as well as almost a million dollars to get him out of debt with his property. Then, once his life was paid off and we had the vessel, we would go on a national sex-capade and charge people for flights. It’s easy to imagine how Pilot and his antics would grow old quickly. With my head in my hands, immense regret would immediately wash over me. Then, I would probably start coping heavily with drugs and as vividly as I see the words written here, I saw myself crashing the fucking plane. Whether intentional or accidental, the simulations rank as highly probable scenarios in my mind.

Our time thus far proves that he doesn't have any interest in me, just what I can do for him. Why do I keep entertaining men I don’t even like. In fact, all of them are just a waste of my time. I only yearn for the person I want to be.” - April 3, evening at Gunna’s

At the end of April, the whole-person sickness finally became too much for me: I stopped drinking (and hard drugs entirely). Since then, I’ve had alcohol on three occasions, the last time was July 6^th at Shakespeare’s. Losing all of its appeal completely makes me realize that I was never an alcoholic.

Today has just become July 25, 2026, the end of a full week without weed. Soon, I will be the most sober I’ve been since before self-harming as a kid; the first addiction we face in one way or another before abusing substances. There are just as many forms of self-harm as there are addicts on the planet. It must be the prerequisite for a life defined by consumption; how else could a person agree to destroy their body and mind if they didn’t already know how good it feels?

My attachment to drugs and alcohol is an expression of control. I find that my scars carry a lot of weight when exposed. They remind me of the power to hurt myself without anything but myself. My loyalty to drugs and alcohol seem less when I look in the mirror at what the child was able to do to the woman. Somehow, my past alleviates the burden of this current lifestyle; I feel no obligation to continue. There is freedom in the physical shackles of this body, scars and all.

I am only starting to feel okay the last day or two. It took waking up a couple more times to feel acclimated to being “checked-in”, so to speak. That feeling of constant discomfort is starting to lift, though dissociation remains. I can tolerate being exhausted every waking moment because of my faith. I know that the experience of this body will improve greatly with time, as dictated by the SUN. Our experience of time is relative to and made possible ONLY by her GREAT GRAVITY and LIGHT.

“Many weeks were spent in total filth, a kind that I'm very accustomed to… Bongs broken, joints are smoked, is this time for real? There will be nothing left to keep me in this fog, whereby all standards for quality of life abandon me. Can this possibly be the end of year’s long back and forth? How can I tell, it's always the same…. I’ve been singing and taking walks every single day, it makes me feel a lot better. Everyone is a ghost to me, just as I am to them. To paint, to draw, to paint, to draw...” - July 2, 2026

“I caved and got more weed. Yesterday was so awful. I have been an anxious wreck without tobacco hits directly to the skull via a bong…  I cried to sleep last night after doom scrolling at the edge of my bed - it might as well have been the edge of the world. I feel like I'm falling into a black-hole pit of despair in my chest…Fortunately, I will always find myself hanging on by a pen – reasoning a way back to safety... I don't fucking feel good.” - July 3, 2026

SHAKESPEARE’S July 6th and 13th

It was the tobacco withdrawal that gave me the worst run for my sanity. Using caffeine and weed to cope with the cravings was the worst decision possible, I fully broke through the fourth wall to a state of psychosis. Just imagine pacing back and forth with tunnel vision, stuck in an imaginary world of violence, catastrophe, and war. Immaculate sadism towards wrong doers in a righteous genocide to clear the world of the infection of pedophilia. Identical to what happened to Tinkerbell not 6 months earlier, just with slightly different themes and perspective. He was the government’s prey and turned himself in for protection. I was the vicious dictator warlord unleashing myself upon a perverted world. He ended up in a mental hospital; I ended up on 6^th street at Shakespeare’s.

“I'm sitting on the lower level of Shakespeare’s, smoking a joint and drinking a Moscow mule. I don't really want alcohol or weed, but I am where I want to be. I can hear them all talk about the show and comedy. I have seen a few familiar faces.

I am surrounded by people who are totally obsessed with the same thing, at least something I used to care about. It’s my first time in this place which used to mean so much to me but has lost all fascination. I am completely disillusioned with this business, and I’m not even a part of it. In silence, they see me and wonder as much I do about them… maybe they realize that I am just testing the waters of even being out of my home. Here, I see people who would crawl with their last calories to get to where they wanted to be. Though I am able-bodied, I seem to be less adapted to life than anyone else in this bar…   

Am I the crazy one?

After a strong back and forth today between so many forces of the mind, I land on the realization that literally no one can be me. That is so empowering when it is fully internalized. Maybe it will last and genuinely shift the state of my mind.

I am so hot right now, so is everybody. I am starting to get sleepy from the drink, I really don’t feel so good. Another person is being called now. This is the spot where you watch people go and possibly change their whole life. The last few steps of obscurity that someone may take. I could be watching the end of life as a person knows it, for better or worse. How is it possible that I could walk down a hallway and go from zero observers to millions occupying my headspace, even just for a minute?

Pilot is calling me out of the blue at this very moment. I haven’t spoken to him in months; I do not know what that man could possibly want from me. He’s probably back in town to see his girlfriend. What does he imagine that I have to say to him, or would want to hear from him? I have been stewing so horribly in resentment...

I cannot wait to see this week’s episode when it comes out.”  - July 6, 2026

Who knows when I will start signing up or what will become of it. Maybe I will remain in the dark forever and continue to laugh alone…

“Five copies of the first volume of this project printed, bound, and rushed to get here. I'm not sure what possessed me to do this, only that I feel compelled…

Same table, same runner, same faces. There seems to be more people here this week. Such a density of humans, all here for a singular reason. Some are silent; others are known to talk.

The desire to drink has completely escaped me. Maybe it’s the weed, but I’m feeling ill just like last time. What is it about this place that makes me so nervous and sick to my stomach? I was on the verge of vomiting last week… Maybe the sickness is inside of me and feel it when prompted. Somehow, all this will become palatable to both of us, it won’t just seem like excrement.

Same spot, same conversations. Week after week, just like podcast after podcast, everything is regurgitated. What are the odds that anyone is paying attention to the substrate in which a comic stakes their material? Or a person their thoughts? Why test the strength of a tent pitched under the light of a false reality – when failure is obviously imminent?

Is the point of entertainment just to kill time? Did it ever have more substance… or have the commentary channels just proven that there is always more reality in the observation of art than the performance itself?

Art is a downstream filtered version of reality, representing a perspective. Perspective isn’t reality, and art isn’t perspective, these things are the products of a “high level coding framework” which utilizes the “machine language” of the world to create a perception, then the machine language of perception (the body) to create art. There is something above all those things operating at the highest level – we call it consciousness.

My opinion as a critical artist is that: commentary on art is hyper realistic – the symbols of ego, class, and sex are stripped away. Commentary is not an interpretation of life, but an attempt to represent the experience of plain sight as if it were possible to see something without making “unseen observations”.

What happens when you apply literal standards to figurative works of art? The goal is to prove if there is reality to the entertainment which we are consuming. If artwork doesn’t fundamentally agree with reality, the intention can only be to create a false one in which the artist is “god”. When artwork fails the “reality test”, it is proof that they are misanthropic, and believe only they themselves are human, everyone else is a figment of their imagination or just a common animal. Is the world your utility, or are you a utility of the world? It matters a lot, this decision we make. These people tend to think they cannot be seen for exactly what they are, naturally, given their belief of superiority.

Commentary is more like a scientific observation and exists (partially) in opposition to the art it observes. An argument for the artistic merit of specific critical work is valid. To me, it generally acts as the antithesis of art – a part of the cultural metabolism. Since 2020, we have witnessed commentary becoming more valuable to the invested consumer than the work it criticizes. Yes, we were forced into an online existence that year, which bred incredible resentment and hyper-fixation, but why has it continued and flourished in the years since?

We’re in a bubble inside a bubble inside a bubble in this bar, a world of its own… sometimes I wonder about you all, I wonder about myself too…

My stomach is twisted up at the things I just can’t articulate. Though the gut is always right, mine right now feels wrong, wrong, wrong...

Gunna hit a baby deer this morning; the Mexicans took it for lunch. Waste not, want not, and what-not.

Damn, damn, damn! I hate this feeling. Prisoner, prisoner, prisoner!

The guy right next to me just got called. His beer is still on the edge of the table; juxtaposed near my stuff as to foreshadow something in anticipation. The only remnant proving he was there, a symbol of passing time as he waited for what he really wanted - now sits abandoned with the rest of us.

This girl carried another girl on her back to the stage, and she struck up conversation with this other guy so easily, like they had always known each other…

Everyone here exists in my life because of a plastic bucket, and they can say the same for me now. How far can that existence be stretched…” - July 13, 2026

DOOMSDAY DIVINE July 23, 2026

Still trapped at home, I will break through to you like a smoking sun, you will not be able to ignore me… Last week’s show was cancelled, though I still showed up to Shakespeare’s to spread the word...

Yesterday was a hard day, which led me to pick up my sketchbook and a frying pan to feed my soul and body. I have been starving myself, yearning indefinitely, it is time to stop and grab it out of the air.

My heart feels so heavy. Sobriety makes me feel even more fucked up most of the time, not sure how that one works. Something to do with anxiety. My dissociation has been so strong today, I feel almost catatonic. I’m not sure when was the last time I felt this out of my body and exhausted. Just the overwhelming feeling of being wasted. When does it get better, how long until this passes?

I thought that things would immediately improve, but it seems like they have gotten worse. Something is calling to me, I can hear it but can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from, apparently everywhere all at once. I keep reaching around me -looking, searching. My hands gripping onto things and waiting for my brain to calculate if that’s what it wants. Usually, I can find something that satiates the craving, sugar is a big one, but today nothing is satisfying. It’s so fucking hot and I’m so tired, what am I supposed to do? Sleep, I suppose.

Yesterday, I drew for the first time in what feels like a year. I also cooked a meal for the first time in probably the same amount of time, if not since arriving in Austin. It reminds me so much of Tinkerbell Boy - the time I spent as a home maker and proto wife. This apartment catches me off guard sometimes, especially my room. Something about the orientation and carpet reminds me of the home I left to come here…

When does it stop… When. Does. It. Stop.  

Comedy and music is the last hail Mary of my art - funneled through my voice, that aspect of me which I’ve always ignored. The only time I feel alive recently is when I am scream-singing, running down the road like I’m chasing someone… taunting them as I gain on their heels. The deer think I’m insane, the people of this neighborhood know it too.

Singing doesn’t make me feel like an artist, but it makes me feel real - more real than this or my drawings! Finally, I found something that imbues me with a sense of wholeness and satisfaction, even if it’s just when I’m singing - it is relief enough for all other time spent in suffering. Now that it is a part of my daily life, it is hard to understand how I ever lived without it.

Like an engine revving down the road, you’re all going to know that I’m around.  Voice throbbing to the beat of my broken heart. Huffing and puffing, intake becomes exhaust… Spitting fumes as I stomp down the sidewalk, I will pollute your space with my presence at every turn. You cannot escape me; there is only me in the end.

There is no religion which penetrates the spirit like what I have discovered through isolation and observation. 

When all your faculties abandon you, and only the emergent image of your life remains, what is really real in the end?

Doomsday alarms sound like death thoughts hemorrhaging from a dying star - a Smoking Sun.

Nova is imminent.