The Only Thing Existing.

Before I begin, allow me tell a story. You’ve never heard anything like it, because it’s mine:

My first photo shoot was in-uterus. I walked out of the womb wearing thick-rimmed glasses, strumming a guitar, my middle name was after an artist. At three, friends shopped at American Apparel; choppy haircuts, buzzed sides, real unique, like me. When I was five, I became addicted to flair and stopped showering. I acquired my first “fixie”. Puke-green. No one else had that color, still don’t. On my eighth birthday, I put a chair on the ceiling and called it art. I sewed my pants too tight to fit. I was amazing.

I went vegan, and started wearing leather. Ironic? No, it was second-hand. My ninth year, my rings outnumbered my fingers. Paint had caked under them, dirt from unknown sources; it’s still there. I don’t know what happened to my friends. They conformed. I hate hipsters; I invented hipsters. Conformity is so 1990. Look inside my Chrome bag, you’ll find a drawing pad, vinyls, and an old muffin wrapper. I don’t know what the world would do without me. Everything I do is for a reaction. I hang feathers in my hair, but a pigeon just dropped on my head. At 11, I received a polaroid camera for my birthday. I was recognized in 47 states as the thrift store heroine. My body odor was offensive. By the age 13 I protested the protesters outside Neiman Marcus. I hurled nutmeg colored paint onto their fur, and called it art. I was deeply offended by those not perplexed by my art. They called it “superfluous.” I didn’t care.

A month later I discovered my superficial heart could accomplish any aesthetics. Photography? Duh. Drawing? Beyond belief. I made a sculpture out of air, internationally acclaimed. It was displayed in the corner coffeehouse, open until three AM. When I was 14, my great grandpa, the acclaimed painter in Santa Fe, died. I took his place. I painted the Sierra Madre mountains, melting. You wouldn’t understand. Fifteen was the magic age; I was rushed to the hospital when forced to listen to mainstream music. I broke out in hives. I took a photo; it was new and innovative. All my friends were cocaine addicts, but I was addicted to art. Still am. I’d rather stick acrylic up my nose and get lead poisoning. To cure me, they put photo chemicals in my IV. I’d be injected with Mod Podge. I literally breathe art. No one asks about my hobbies, they already know. My pierced nose, messy hair, and unwashed clothes give it away. I am seventeen, or something. I am an artist. I am art. This is fact, if not implied. If my superiority complex were ripped out from under me, I couldn’t look myself in the mirror. I would be a bourgeois. Plus, I’m too busy knitting my next scarf to find something else to pretend to be.

Now, where do I start?