Love is walking past a penny dropped tails-side up, or throwing salt over your left shoulder, or lifting your feet when you drive over the railroad tracks, or refusing to walk under a ladder. We feel like we have to do it, even if we don’t know why anymore.

You fuck around, you find out, and then there's nothing else to do. So you fuck around again. Rarely do you find that the prize behind door number 3 was everything you ever needed.

Alan Moore gave us The Killing Joke and had to live in the same timeline as Jared Leto, which is horrible just at face value.

I will win that stuffed animal and in the very moment it reaches my weary, bloody-knuckled hands, I will beat that non-sentient object to death just to prove that I conquered my quest.

I have a challenging relationship with nostalgia, but I often do the same things over and over again. I'm not recreating moments I lived. I'm recreating my old forms of escapism.

Anyone can claim to be an artist, but the proof is always in the art. I have none to show.

It's a complicated and polarizing thing. I desperately seek to nurture anything that has been unspoiled by the world and I have a deep desire to keep it that way.

I'm sitting in an office chair that my cats have clawed to bits, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, nestled among a graveyard of art projects I'll never finish.