February 6

Norristown is about thirty miles outside of Philadelphia. I usually just tell people I lived in Philly because it’s obviously more identifiable, but the truth of it is: I lived in Norristown. I liked Norristown. It was quaint, close to the King of Prussia Mall, and only an hour away from one of the oldest cities in the country.

My identity crisis followed me through an early March snow storm, over slushed covered stretches of highway, through a splattering of miles and miles of road salt that turned my blue Jeep Wrangler completely white. It’s a five hour drive from Pittsburgh t Norristown. I had been hoping the move would do me good, a chance to start over. Craving re-do’s is perfectly normal, right? Fresh slates and all that… Starting new is always a means of growth in one’s being, but change is hard. Change means adaptation, and adaptation can mean compromising choices and the slow, painful peeling away of an old self. This molting process for me seemed to have had an extraordinarily slow tempo; no rush, no pause, just unbearably slow and painful.

Getting to work straight away, I worked hard to lose that weight I had gained, and I patiently waited through extremely awkward phases of my hair growing out. But the work seemed to be futile because even though I was feeling better about myself, I was lonelier and more desperate to fill that void than ever. On the upside of this, my three years in Norristown were some of the most creatively productive years of my life. Grand depression and loneliness has a bittersweet value of producing great art.

And I arted the crap out of myself.

I also did a lot of very, very stupid things, starting with Man #5…