The

The When I first told my dad that I wanted to be an artist, he paused and then told me,

hope you like buttered noodles.

It was kind of prophetic in a way because I did end up liking buttered noodles, but what he was

really trying to tell me was, be prepared to struggle and starve.

And boy, was he right about that.

After graduating high school, I opted not to go to college and instead worked a series of

menial jobs until I had enough save to move to San Francisco.

After I moved, I lived in a shared Hunter's Point apartment for about 18 months with a bunch of other starving artists as I attempted to break into the local arts scene.

That was a tough time for me and for several reasons.

There was a lot of crime, a lot of drugs, and outside of the few bucks an hour I got from my part-time bag boy job, I was dead broke.

Then, to top it off, I lived with a revolving door of unreliable, egocentric brat spawn,

who were out there pissing away Mommy and Daddy's money pretending to be artists,

but instead purchased way more pot and pills than they ever did paints or pencils.

And I knew I had to start making some money and find a better apartment because another year

with those bums and I'd have gone crazy. And that's when I started job hunting like a son of a

bitch day in and day out for like a month straight. It was exhausting, and when it got

to the point where I could feel myself starting to burn out, I began to consider running back

home with my tail between my legs before starting afresh in New York when I had the cash saved

up again. But then, right when things seemed at their darkest, I met a guy named Greg. We met outside

a liquor store when he asked me for a light, and he looked like he was having the worst day of his

life. When I asked him if he was okay as I lit a cigarette, he told me he was about to be fired

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