The Shakers are my spiritual brethren, and also like them I love to work, and toiling in the zine mines has chewed my shit up, brothers, sisters, I am so tired, my feet ache to the hips, and still I am craving to put my hands to work. Like I'm in bed with the lights out, it's after midnight, my body parts are throbbing and my thoughts are warping like records in a hot car, and I'm considering writing some professional emails: reality, insanity, police brutality.
If you visited my table and I was rude to you, I'm sorry. Especially you, Noah Van Sciver, I'm sorry I said I would kill you. You seem like a nice guy.
Let's attack some official business. I'm in "Curiosity Cabinet" at Pony Club this month (I drew some moldy strawberries), "Satanic Panic" at the same gallery next month, and "Bound and Gagged" at Secret Headquarters in Los Angeles also next month. And new products are in my Etsy store. Official business is concluded.
Possibly the only thing remaining for me in this day is to look up schmaltz online until it obscures how sore I am, how lazy and inadequate, how poor and how many things I have left undone. Romantic love was invented to manipulate women. Let's do this thing.
What's terrible is that you murdered Noah Van Sciver.
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