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Hi. I’m Anchovy.

No wait, please, don’t go. I swear that’s my name.

Look, sit down… could I get you anything?

Tea? Gin? Weed? Wait, I don’t have weed.

Fuck, I’m fucking up, let me try this again.


I’m Anchovy.

And I have…

a hard time             connecting             with people.


Well, my name’s Anchovy,

what did you expect?


It feels like, there’s this


It’s all around me, this thin membrane.

I have to, like, reach out through it

it feels like i’m always the one reaching out

To, like, CONNECT to people


Maybe it started when my dad left

Whoa bebe now there’s a cliche (sorry about that)

Maybe it’s cuz my mom always says I don’t care about her

Maybe it’s because my step brother-







ANYWAY I used to reach out

a lot

But now it’s like I’m numb

or something.

I fell in love too much, had too many friends ditch me

fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you

I don’t really feel like I’m here

ya know?



Some things bring me back  

Some people.

And when I hold them, or kiss them, or fuck them, or even just talk to them

I feel…


Bad? Distant? Fake?         Alone.

I feel less alone.


So I paint these people,

These moments of connection

Cement them in oil, document my own history

My own art history

My own anthology

So I can remember what it feels like

To not be alone.

I’m weird.


Not sorry

Still sorry

I like WEIRD things, okay?

fuck yea suck on my toes cunt i know you like it



These are weird paintings, okay?

These are the things I see in my head

How I interpret the moments



I know how to get you to like me

I know how to paint pretty for you


But when you look


The nice technique

And see how




I am



                                                                                      Will you stick around?

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