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Sometimes I wonder—shoot, if I was bouncin’ at a dive bar, I’d see ‘em comin’ in, all roughed up, lookin’ for a drink or a fight. Breaks my heart, man. I’d wanna shake ‘em and yell, “Get outta this crap!” But nah, ain’t my place. Margaret’s got that line, “You’re not even human!”—and I feel that, ‘cause society treats ‘em like ghosts. Pisses me off royally. How’s that workin’ for ya, world? Huh? Ain’t workin’ worth a damn.

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Then, I decide to swing by the local art supply store on Main St. I’m lookin’ for some new textures for my projects. I walk in, and it’s like heaven. Paints, brushes, all the good stuff. But then, I see the prices. I’m like, “Are you kidding me?!” I mean, who do they think I am? Picasso? I’m just a texture artist tryin’ to make it, man.

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