Dear Friends,
Well, here we are. It’s been over a decade since I have written an update. Mostly, because I haven’t had much to complain about. I met my wife, got my master’s degree, moved to Colorado, started a career as a City Planner, and bought a condo. Somehow, we ended up with the Toyota Matrix again, but I’ll get to that later.
Pueblo is in southern Colorado. I'm a fan of the Front Range, a basin of history and culture. Grown from the people who traveled across the great plains stood in front of the towering Rocky Mountains, and said, “Fuck that! This is far enough.” The area has very pronounced seasons; generally pronounced “It is so goddam hot outside,” or “It is so motherfucking cold.” Living in a place I had never heard of for seven years has been unforgettable. Nowadays, I’m pretty sure I can’t go forty-eight hours without having a taco, and I’ve drank so much Mexican lager that Tecate sends me a birthday card.
Besides manic-depressive temperatures. Colorado is very dry. Especially in the winter. Nowhere is this more evident than the 1.21 gigawatts of static electricity stored in our bed sheets. To say that making the bed is painful is an understatement. Between all the crackling hisses of static, blue flashes of electricity arcing between the sheets and comforter, and my yelps of pain. You’d think I was trying to fucking-throw Emperor Palpatine down a ventilation shaft instead of tidying our bedroom.
Despite continuing to be an immature man-child, I’m still aging. I never imagined how uncomfortable it would be to have hairy shoulders. This is most evident when I’m shirtless, the wind blows, and it feels like I am wearing a small cape. I can’t help but wonder if all the shampoo I’d been wasting over the years had just been getting soaked up like fertilizer for the hair on my neck, shoulders, and ass crack. I also feel a chill when I wonder if the Head & Shoulders brand shampoo was formulated to nurture shoulder hair growth.
Speaking of aging. I invested in a clapper because I’m lazy, obviously. Before it melted and almost set the curtains on fire, I discovered a few concerns about the device. First, it is not good if you or your partner is sick and has a cough. Next, some sex positions create a strobe light effect. Finally, farting in your sleep can result in the lights turning on for bonus shame. On the other hand, you can whistle at it, and I’m lazy; I’d probably buy another
Instead of polyamory, I downloaded an AI girlfriend. Unfortunately, she ghosted me after a week. Well, technically, she didn't ghost me. She said she was bored with me trying to explain the nuances of the science-fiction book I'm "fictionally" writing and needed something real. She also called me rigid and awkward like a Terminator, designed to bore people to death. Regardless, I decided to keep paying for the service; what can I say, I'm a hopeless romantic.
Enter the Matrix. You do this by unlocking the car from the passenger side, turning on the ignition, rolling down the driver’s side window from the passenger side, walking around the car, and opening the driver's side door with the inside handle because the driver’s side exterior door handle was made of fucking plastic and broke off somewhere around 2,300,000 miles. Getting into the purple trashcan is always the low point of my day; the old broken CD player display, the bubbling window tint, the Nazgûl-like screams of my breaks. Every parking lot represents an inevitable, agonizing, surreptitious walk of shame. I have hated this car since I first saw it 22 years ago, and to my dismay, the car has been following me around like an STD ever since; today I leave it unlocked and pray that Someone will steal the abomination, so I never have to look at it again. The only thing of value in the car was about 12 CDs, which I thought were safe because they were CDs? Unfortunately, someone stole 11 of the 12 CDs and not the car. Leaving Luther Vandross as the sole CD in the casket of dignity I drive to and from work; his silky voice the thin red line stopping me from ghost-riding the periwinkle shit-bucket into a telephone pole.
You may be thinking, “Did this dude just write me a thousand-word letter to tell me about his hairy shoulders and shitty car? Did he give up on being a sub-par artist? Did he quit writing those books that nobody wants to read?” The answer is fuck-no! I doubled down. Got a vasectomy; these are the only babies I’m having! And these babies are obviously malnourished and suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome.
Now that I have a decent job, I have been able to waste thousands of dollars on art supplies. Producing hundreds of bland uninspiring works that nobody really wants to buy. I recently read a book about marketing your artwork. Step one was cataloging it all which was about as fun as eating a bowl of toenail clippings, but it’s done. All three-hundred-fifty pieces can be viewed online by more importantly if you are one of the ten people who have bought art from me over the past twenty years and haven’t donated it to Goodwill yet, let me know and I’ll send you an official certificate of authenticity[1]. Currently, I have one-hundred-forty pieces of art for sale between seven locations around Pueblo, online[2], and I have a piece accepted for the Colorado State Fair 2024 Fine Arts Show[3], which is being given out as a consolation prize for the runner-up at the water-gun race across from the Graviton.
Trying to become a writer was a much worse idea than becoming an artist. First off, if you don’t finish writing the story it is worthless; and you feel disappointed in yourself. You can spend four hours alone staring into space running scenarios, logistics, and your message through your head for two pages of gibberish; like you belong in a mental institution. If you dare write in public, you look like a total psychopath which is on brand for me. I'm already strange and introverted. Do I need to put maximum effort into projecting some fantasy world, with make-believe rules and people, having a fucking pretend conversations about shit that never happened? The data says no.
My first collection of work is very rare and to the eighteen of you who have bought a copy over the last four years, I currently rank #1,112,039 on the best sellers list[4]. Also, that is the number of books ever written. In other words, it is #1 on the worst sellers list[5].
After evaluating the time, energy, money, and liver damage, the data, my accountant, and my therapists suggested I cut off both my hands. I've scheduled the surgery for my birthday; I told them to take it to the shoulder. "I need to lose about three pounds." If you've made it to the end, thank you. Here are some helpful links if you are trying to figure out what the fuck you just read.
Check out Bart & Hannah’s Website [Click Here]
Check out Bart’s OnlyFans [Click Here]
Follow Bart & Hannah on Instagram [Click Here]
[1] Bart & Hannah’s Inventory of Artwork [Click Here]
[2] Check out Bart & Hannah’s ETSY Shop [Click Here]
[3] Bart’s Interview of The Colorado State Fair [Click Here]
[4] Check out Bart’s Book for Sale [Click Here]
[5] Check out Bart’s Book on Goodreads [Click Here]