I'm almost there. My job is almost done. I've just got two paintings left, a sculpture, and just some minor touch up shit. I told my gallery owner that I was gonna take a fat vacation after all this mess ends. That I wanted to just fly to Hawaii, sit on the beach, gawk at the beautiful women, drown myself in sugary cocktails, and fall in love for a few days. His reply:
"if all goes according, you wont have time for a vacation home boy, it will be on to the next show!"
I know I can't complain. This is what I've slaved for. This is the time to put in work. Grind it out. Make a name for myself. Things are finally turning around. It's like catching cards after being short stacked at the poker table. I finally have an art crew. My friends are doing well. My family is doing well. Zilla is finally behaving. And I just beat my first lawsuit.
During the last couple of months I've been experiencing some breakdowns. I'll usually be doing some routine shit where I can let my mind wander: walking the dog, driving to the studio, paying the bills. I'll just break down and bawl like a baby. I'll cry like a little girl, and really I won't be thinking about anything in particular. Usually it's just an overwhelming sense of sadness and grief. The episodes don't really last more than a minute or two tops, but it's been really worrying me lately. It can't be normal, right?
I just want to go far away, to a nice private beach, turn off my cell phone, have no schedule, and just not care. About anything. At least for a little bit. A few days. Just something for myself. Figure out what's wrong. Rehab.
Things are so good right now. I have good, solid projects lined up. Women think I am worth their time again. Things are on the up and up. But we'll see how things go.
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