Sorry for writing this. I’m supposed to be an artist that people look up (well a few people who don’t know me personally may still do so) but my uncontained rage at how social media makes self-promotion of one’s distress, before it has even been hashtag-uttersd has made me speak more on here.
I have never felt ok as an adult, and I’m sick and tired of it. And fuck it, if speaking as a “flaky cunt” discredits any professional distance an artist is supposed to uphold.
It’s a continued wankness, worseningly interrupted by advise-givers who merely add extra voices to the self-critical monologue that lines the wank-tank.
Art that imitates life can only be posthumously celebrated, and woe-betited they who are self-aware of what they are doing.
This is no life. And yes it is my fault, before you California-indoctrinated tell me it’s up to me. I
It is up to me, but not in the way you make it out to be. Because reality is never Californian. Only it’s presentation is.
John B Ledger 