Artfucks

So many of us artists are absolutely tortured by our own minds. You have your Plaths, your Van Goghs your Hemmingways, your Woolfs. I think about these people when I'm feeling down. They don't inspire me. It's what comes with the territory. When you become an artist you can expect to feel pain. If you don't, your art isn't very good. The best art is soul-wrenching, gut-heaving, tear-filled, desperate expression. The rest is fake and just for profit and fame.

Either way, I think about them, and although I'm not inspired, its nice to know that I'm in good company. I've hit more than my fair share of ultimate lows, and its comforting to think that some amazing people before me felt the exact same way.
Tonight has been a low night. My boyfriend is going to leave me because I depress him, which depresses me more. Its a vicious, but most of all stupid cycle. Why do I let men make me feel this way? I wish I wasn't such a romantic.
Thanks to Daniel Johnston for comforting me.











I'll never be as crazy/cool as you.