Well shit. Age 44 – the year that actually tried to kill me. Jesus Christ. In September ’22 I wound up in the hospital for 2 weeks due to an infection in my leg which was killing me, as well as essentially melting the bones in my foot. I was out of work for a few months, I spent the fall and winter in a wheelchair and walker. I was told by one doctor I’d probably never walk again. He was an asshole and fuck that guy. Learned a lot about the medical industry – it sucks, and none of those fucking fuckers knows what they’re doing or how to help patients (except for my girlfriend who is a doctor and a lovely human being and the best in the world). Learned I was diabetic, and the insulin I take is actively destroying my eyesight. Whenever I stop taking it, I can see. But if I don’t take it, I’ll die. Real fun for an artist. Oh, and now I have a herniated disc/pinched nerve. So, while the foot thing and infection only mildly hurt, the neck thing is causing extreme pain daily in my left arm & shoulder, which is also numb, but also in fiery, fierce pain that makes me want to kill myself daily.

So, hey, Age 45 – back the fuck off. Let’s take it easy this year, especially since it could well be the last time I ever get to work on art – the one thing in life that has ever truly brought me any increment of happiness.

Anyway. Steve Ditko’s The Creeper. Happy birthday to me.