First, a poem:
You love when you’re unwanted
You love when you’re adored
You only love a city when it is burning at it’s core
You love in tattered atmospheres
You love on solid ground
You only love a woman when she’s pulling out of town
You love yourself regardless
Of a blogger’s negative snark
And remind yourself that everyone
Does handstands in the dark
You love in spite of government
You love in spite of war
You only love with honesty, although it leaves you sore
We love when love is quarantined
We love when love is drowned
You only love a city when its burning to the ground
I’ve been busying myself with art-related work. It’s my thing. Drawing is my thing. Even if I never get any money out of it, I will die doing it, like nearly any and all creative art forms do. Or drugs. Drugs can sometimes kill you. Unless you’re the dealer, in which case you probably make a substantial amount of income and drive fancy muscle cars to Teavana. Have pretty ladies in leather bikinis (that you wear when alone in your castle in the sky) and own six vending machines filled with Dunkaroos, have an army of pet tigers, and hired some really, really, really old dude who looks like the butler from Tomb Raider that farts when you run up to him and press ‘X’.
…Did I get you thinking about a career change for a micro second there? Good. Me too.
Because I want a bikini-wearing tiger.