A while ago, I was listening to an indie album. An imperfect little thing. Meant to raise money for a individual of a band and their health costs. It sounded brittle and a little off, and devoid of irony. I love doodling, even the process. I struggle with feeling real sometimes, incompatible with reality.

To cope, I escape. I filter the world through a warmer lens. Where I consider consequences and survive through the stories I tell myself.

I find a balance, sometimes, between being a functional adult interfacing with cold, hard reality, and a maladaptive little mess. I don't think I'm alone in this.

So, I love doodling. Instead of being a dopamine-seeking automaton, I can be a functional little mess. It gives me presence, and it gives me play. Drawing is an observational skill, so I get to see where I've been.

Sometimes, I want to share it, but the way I share it, it's made me feel awful. At the end of every meditative little session, or focused piece, I get this nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach. All that peace I found for those few hours, seems so far away. Logical pointlessness rightfully jabs me. What I want to happen, would be overwhelming if it did. The narrative I tell myself about not belonging will be exacerbated, despite knowing how stupid my evidence is. A class disparity would only be drawn more clear, as hours, if not months of life, is reduced to product on a product pile,

if it were even enough to begin with. If it even needs to be seen to qualify.

So that imperfect, raw little album, made me want to be a sketchbook site. It made me write, Don't Be Good on sketchbook paper and tape it to my wall.

So, tons of waffling, and just one more delusional commitment later, I somehow got here.

I think I'd rather be a bad artist.