I’m fucking riled up and irritated. Anxiety is creeping into my blood stream exploding in my brain and heart. Imaginary convulsions. Public anxiety. Private anxiety. What’s the difference?
I feel safe for a while then it happens all over again. One bad apple spoils the fucking tree. Fuck that apple and the tree and the branches and the roots. Fuck you too.
Question my capabilities. You threaten my art. You are nothing. What have you done? Who are you?
I am Rich Hillen Jr. I am an American artist. I am a dream. I am a nightmare. I am sick. I forget that sometimes. Why does it seem that people bring out the disease? Make it worse.
“Snap out of it.” “Force yourself to do it” “ Get over it” “Move on.” “Just do it” “Do this” Do that”
I do what I can when I can the best I can and that’s all there is to it. You don’t like it then leave me the fuck alone. Go. Now.
I can’t take people’s opinions, advice, recommendations, suggestions, demands, orders or anything you have to say that doesn’t support what I am doing.
Look, you don’t know what it’s like to to be me. To be infected with several diseases. Inflicted for life. Like it or not.
Even with my problems, even with what you view as me being lazy or rebellious or whatever, I have done more than you can dream of. I’ve been a rock star, an artist, made more money than you, fucked more than you, lived, truly lived more than you ever will.
Through my inferiority I see that I am superior to you. I’m not going to let you destroy me.