I hate this. I hate you.

I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I know what I’m doing but I don’t care if anyone else does. I don’t know how to talk. I don’t care about talking about my work. Fuck you. I don’t care if you like it or want to pay for it. Walk by it. That’s fine. You don’t make me feel better or worse on how you feel about my art. Is it art? I don’t care if it is. I make it because it makes me feel good. I make it because it’s important to me. I make it because I want to. I don’t make it for you. You ruin it for me. You make me over think it. My hand is too prevalent and not universal. My hand is not present and makes it uninteresting. If I’m here its no good if I’m gone its no good. I’m not sure it matters what you say. I like my stuff and it makes sense to me. It makes sense to others. Some people will always understand, some people will never understand, some people will understand some of the time. There isn’t an answer, why bother trying to find the answer? Why try to find the ultra-universal? It doesn’t exist. It doesn’t exist. It doesn’t exist. People will make the connections they want to make. There is no art movement. This is no group. There is no art. Is it art? Or is it just me? If you reject it you don’t reject me because I don’t give a fuck what you think anyways. I just don’t care. You’re opinion doesn’t effect my relation to my past. That’s what this is about. My relation to my own past. And if you don’t care you don’t care. If you see your own history, your family’s history, I love that. It’s amazing. People are amazing to be able to relate things to themselves. That’s fine. Run with it. But this work is not about you. It’s about me. You don’t need to understand that. You don’t need to care about that. You don’t need to care about me. You just need to care about you and if you don’t that’s not my problem.