That's what I've been telling myself since last we spoke. It just dawned on me a few days ago that I need to do better with keeping track of the days. Since I lost my phone in an altercation with the asshole that stole my truck, I've been rather depressed. Broken phones always make me cringe. I don't know how I'll earn another one since, where I am in my life, nothing seems to be productive. The people I'm my life are toxic, refuse to be anything other than, and I hate getting on here talking about it. Yet since I'm in fear of being killed, while living in an abandoned building and no one ever hearing from me again or knowing I ever was, I think it's best that I do write and continue to let the world know I'm here.

I was reading over my old journals from last year and realized that most of AVproductions, my art, my life, pretty much stopped when I lost the security found in caregiving, was rendered homeless, and began this assanine search for a new home. Which lead me to Dallas, which was never supposed to be, and I've yet to meet people who see talent and want to invest in it.

I'm starting to wonder if it's just a Southern Curse, and as long as I'm South of the Mason Dixon Line, then I'm destined to be asking for "Spare-Change," and made to teeter the boardwalk towards another failed attempt at achieving Government Aid, from institutions that have never wanted to help me, unless it was to send me to prison, reform school, or a soup kitchen line.

The point is, everything I wrote five years ago, maybe six now, again I've stopped counting the days, let's see, when I turn 33, I might be better at it, was true. I had zero job security when I was in North Carolina, despite my clients assurance that I'd be cared for in any event. Everyone save my client turned on me, and I left with no referral paperwork. Not that a reference would aid in promotional job placement.

The art remains my therapy, but only in this distant bubble of virtual solace. I'm wanting so much to move the work from online databases to the real world, but keep getting told the provocative content won't meet a big enough audience, or makes me a demon, or evil, or a Northern Yankee and I need to know my place and settle for street urchin work.

Despite Sex Selling all over the world, despite #MeToo Movements, despite Uber challenging racists with bubble signs because they higher foreign nationals to fit the bill of cheap labor and consider that BLM worthy, despite LGBTQ soup achieving national accreditation, despite people who believe in Extra-Terresials being published as legitimate authors and storytellers, despite reason being thrown out the fucking window and I'm allowed to curse in the article, I've yet to be able to sell these dreams to a major sponsor. As Childish Gambino says, "This is America!"