brokefaceasshole

I took this picture about 5 years ago for a photo shoot. Most people don't like it, they think is perturbing. When they ask, I usually just say I got in a bar fight so I don't have to really explain.

I called my mom a few days ago and she asked why I put this picture up. She said she hates it and wonders why I don't put up something nice.

"What happened? Why do you put up pictures like this?"

"I dunno mom. It was a photoshoot from a few years ago. I like it."

"Is it real?"

"No, it's just all fake. Don't worry mom."

"Are you okay, how have you been?"

"I'm at the studio now, but I'm about to have some beers with a friend. I'm doing okay."

"Okay, remember to stop smoking cigarettes and don't drink so much."

"Ok mom, tell dad I say hi."

I guess it really started after watching the movie fight club in high school. A few friends and I decided it would be a good idea to meet once a week and kick the living shit out of each other for fun. At first it was just the three of us at first, then it was 5, and then it was 10 and it kind of grew and grew into this thing.

I wasn't the nicest person growing up. I've dished out my fair share of punishment. I'm not saying I've never been put in my place, but never enough so for me to feel like I've ever learned a lesson. And maybe I felt like I needed to teach myself a lesson.

I had to do a profile photoshoot at the time anways, so I decided i would up the ante and give myself a black eye. To see what it would feel like. Some modern day self-flagellation.

I spent two days punching myself in the left eye. My friends thought it was pretty stupid, but they still offered to help. I politely declined and administered mostly small rabbit punches the first day as I was still a bit hesitant with the entire project. My main concern wasn't about actually having a black eye, but whether or not I was causing some long term damage to my vision. I pushed forward.

The second day I took more drastic measure. The rabbit punches weren't doing any good at all. It took a few quarts of whiskey, but I really took the mission with a bit more emboldened passion. By the end of the night I had a pretty good shiner going. It was partially swollen and red and I was pretty proud of myself.

The blood is completely fake. It's a mixture of flour, food coloring, cornstarch and water. After the black eye, I really didn't have the heart to break my nose. After two days of punching myself in the face, the shot took about 5 minutes to capture. And that was it.

So really, I didn't get a black eye from a bar fight. I gave it to myself. Because I'm an idiot. And because sometimes I really don't have better things to do. So stop asking.

i do what i want

I've definitely been told by older artists that my career and life should be about doing whatever I want. It's very easy for a young man to take that type of advice and totally head down the wrong path. I definitely have Peter Pan Syndrome. I've almost always done about anything that I've ever wanted. And I thought that it would never end. Except the fact that my bodies finally starting to work against me.

About the only responsibility I have right now is the dog. I can't be away from him for longer than 6 hours at a stretch which I think in the end is a good thing. If I didn't have Zilla I wouldn't really care where I slept or what hours I kept. So at least having one thing to take care of really isn't so bad.

My pet sitter Bonnie recently moved to Tennessee with her boyfriend so it's really thrown a wrench in my vacation plans. I originally wanted to go to Hawaii to lay in the sand and drink fruity cocktails and say sexy things to sexy girls, but it was never meant to happen. I could never find a replacement sitter, I am still actively on the search. There is no way I was just gonna leave the big, dumb thing at a boarding shelter.

So instead, I just took Zilla on a California staycation. First, we went out to Lake Millerton where he took his first splash in the water.

I went out with some high school friends and drank and ate too much in 90 degree heat.

I basically spent 4 days without changing my clothes, underwear included.













After that I drove me and Zilla down to sunny La with my friend Hazel and her dog, they were horrible copilots.
To be fair, it was nice to have someone in the car with me even if all the passengers spent most of the the time sleeping, Hazel included.

It was the first time I took a road trip with pets, or a girl. Suffice to say, we made it out alive with no incidents.












Once we got there Zilla made friends with Jolie and Hunter and everything was alright.

I crashed out in Pasadena at my Hazel's house where Jolie and Hunter kept Zilla at bay.

I tied him up to a tree outside for a bit and he got raped by a gang of fleas. His belly looked like raw dick cheese. He was not happy.













The Kim sisters took me out to eat, drink, and party like it was the end of days.

I have never really liked LA, but it's a little different when you aren't just going it by your lonesome.

The girls are a lot prettier and if it's not me drinking and driving, it's all right.














I had about the sexiest couch surfing experience of my life.

Most times, I'm sleeping at some shitty ratholes. Drinking my way into forced slumber. But I've upgraded a bit in life, and it's nice.

















Getting chauffeured in a Range by sexy women isn't fucking horrible either.

All I had to do was not be smelly and brush my teeth, both things I would tend not to do on vacation.

After LA, I drove down to SD to meet some old college buddies.









First I met up with Robin and met Pequena a umbrella cockatoo. I'm sure like with most women, she could not get enough of me.

After that I met up with Nate and bummed it a few days at his pad with his family. He's got a baby and all and if my parent's knew him, they would be like, "Daniel it sure would be nice if you were more like Nate." It's kind of why I've never introduced them.

I'm really thankful that I have friends that not only put up with my bullshit and put me up, but are also willing to take in my 120lb dog also.

It's not everyday that regular, people let a filthy artist into their homes.














After my trip, I got a call from my mom and she told me she was disappointed in the way I handled the situation with my previous gallery. She told me that she was embarrassed and that I have to learn to handle my shit without flipping my lid. Shames not the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind. She made me feel bad a bit, but only while we were on the phone.

Am I embarrassed about how I acted? No.

Do I think I overreacted? Yes, a bit.

Would I do it again? Yes, but with more punching.

And finally, here are some ill guided and drunken thoughts on traveling and friends.

Til next time,

xox,

d