I went to the art supplies store today, and picked up the two prints I ordered, of Moz With Manson, and they turned out beautifully. I framed one of them, so I have the original, and the print of it, both hanging on my walls. I like the painting very much. I boarded the wrong bus coming home, and had to walk a bit through the downtown east side to get back to the bus route I meant to be on, carrying the framed print, and I passed by many homeless people sprawled out on the concrete. I can’t imagine being in that situation. My lungs still scare me sometimes. I’ll be making an appointment with my doctor in about a week, to get another chest X-ray, and take it from there. I have other niggling concerns about my physical health that I won’t get into now, but my mental health has been good for quite some time, ever since I heard Morrissey sing my name, and then saw him (in hindsight 9 days later) on a bench outside a market, and I think it’s only getting better with time, for now anyway. I miss you Morrissey. I want your presence. I’ll be painting portraits of you, because they’re as close as I can get to touching you. God I sound sappy, when I read this back to myself. Morrissey we need to have a fight, so I can get mad at you and spice these drivel entries up with expletives lashing out at you, because I sound so sucky, at least to myself. Come over here. Let’s fight. I’m sure it would be fun, with
you. Oh but it would be terrible if you upped and left. Eventually I guess you would, for one reason or another, you’d have to go. Give me something to hold onto. Memory of touching you, and a stupid photo for my psychiatrist so that if I blurt out that I was with you, he won’t chuck me into the loony bin on increased medication. Eugh!
This is the framed print of Morrissey With Shirley Manson.