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I had to keep asking myself what it's all for. Some poor misinformed bastards may think that being an artist is all fame and fortune, fast women and fast cars, fine dining and fine-cut cocaine. Sometimes it's easier just to let them believe that. Lying to make a man happy is the closest I can be to being happy myself.
Now, again, with the reek of india ink filling my nose and staining my hands, I asked myself what it's all for. Is it worth it. Should I be sinking five hours of my life into scribbling on bristol board with pencil crayons just to scratch a neverending itch, or should I just try to quiet the itching with painkillers and booze and get on with earning a wafer-thin paycheck.
I didn't know the answer, which in itself isn't news. So I figured I may as well go on the only way I knew how: walking on the edge of a fake prescription and trying not to get papercuts.