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.
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
But now it’s like I’m numb
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
Some things bring me back
And when I hold them, or kiss them, or fuck them, or even just talk to them
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 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
Will you stick around?