Oscar’s First Breakdown (Because of Course He Did)

Well, it didn’t take long.

Oscar, my charming, creaky 1991 Dodge B350, got towed yesterday. Not even a full week into this new life chapter, and already we’ve hit our first “lesson.” Spoiler alert: it was messy, inconvenient, and just the right amount of existentially humbling.

The culprit? A cracked, brittle old transmission hose (that was actually just a garden hose with a dream) that decided to finally give up on life. Fluid everywhere. Van wouldn’t shift. I was stuck in neutral, both literally and emotionally.

Cue the slow-motion tow truck moment. Watching Oscar being dragged off like a defeated war horse, I stood there feeling like a sad, cowboy who just lost his last cigarette and his horse in one go.

And you know what? I didn’t cry.
Okay, maybe a little.
But mostly, I just stared at the mess and thought, “Of course. Of fucking course.”

Because that’s how this year’s been: full of beauty and breakdowns. Forward motion followed by gut punches. Freedom with a price tag.

Still, I’d rather be here, in this unpredictable, oil-stained, soul-stretching mess, than back in a life that felt like I was just surviving someone else’s idea of stability.

Oscar’s been to the hospital now. I’m in limbo. Again.
But we’ll both come out of this with a few more scars and a little more character.
(And hopefully a new hose that doesn’t burst at the first sign of hope.)

More soon.
This road trip is just getting started.

I Moved Into a 1991 Van Named Oscar

I guess this is the part where I say something like, "New chapter, new wheels," but honestly? It’s less romantic and more “what the fuck am I doing?”

I moved into a 1991 Dodge B350 van. His name is Oscar. He’s boxy, creaky, smells a bit like old dust and freedom, and somehow, I already feel more at home here than I have in any apartment in years.

It’s not glamorous. I’m not out here pretending to be a Pinterest vanlife influencer with fairy lights and pour-over coffee rituals. I’ve got paint-stained sheets, two half-broken drawers, a cooler that whines louder than I do when I spiral, and a drawer full of tangled chargers and emotional damage.

And there’s space.
To breathe.
To paint.
To write.
To scream into the void when I need to.
And lately, I’ve needed to.

Madi, my Great Dane, doesn’t live with me right now. That part hurts more than I expected. She’s my emotional support behemoth, and not having her curled up (read: sprawled like royalty) next to me makes the space feel quieter in a way that isn’t always peaceful. I miss her a lot.

But I’m here.
This isn’t an escape—it’s an arrival. A shift. A claiming of space that’s mine, even if it’s on wheels and held together by hope and duct tape.

More on that later.
Oscar and I are just getting started.

What I Really Want: Honesty, Connection, and Growth (With a Dash of Adventure)

I want to bring honesty and connection to the front row of my life’s show. No smoke, no mirrors, just real talk, open hearts, and the messy, beautiful work of being human together. I want to be someone who values connection so deeply that it’s like oxygen: communication, honesty, trust, the basics that keep everything else alive.

I want to share my love of art, nature, music, writing, and the outdoors. Imagine us wandering a forest trail or debating if a painting is “modern art” or just “something my dog could’ve made.” I want a partner who’s not just along for the ride but ready to dive into life’s adventures, snacks packed, and maybe a questionable playlist queued up.

But above all, I want to keep growing mentally, physically, spiritually, like a wildflower that somehow manages to bloom even in cracks of concrete (because who doesn’t want to be a little badass like that?).

Here’s the shortlist of my non-negotiables, the traits I’m hunting for in this wild journey called love:

Honesty: Let’s be real, no secret-keeping, no cryptic texts, just straight-up transparency.
Communication: The good, the bad, the “I’m freaking out over a text” kind of talks, all with zero judgment.
Understanding: Someone who sees me, the whole package, and doesn’t run for the hills when the past shows up uninvited.
Adventure: A partner-in-crime for spontaneous road trips, star-gazing sessions, and the occasional “I swear I can’t hike another step” moment.
Growth: Mental, physical, spiritual, like a lifelong project we’re both invested in, no shortcuts.

I want someone who’s not scared of my anxieties and panics but sees them as part of the landscape, like mountains in the distance, sometimes intimidating but always a part of the view. Someone who’s okay with me talking about my feelings without fear of a “Really? Again?” eye-roll.

I want the freedom to say what’s on my mind, no filters, no fear, because that’s where true connection starts. I want a partnership where silence can be comfortable, trust is steady, and honesty feels like home.

At the end of the day, it’s honesty, connection, and growth. And maybe some laughter when things get ridiculous because if you can’t laugh at life’s chaos, what’s the point?

My Art is Full of Naked Men and Emotional Damage

I’ve been painting a lot of asses and dicks lately. Let’s just name it. Male nudes. Veiny, exposed, faceless. Not for shock, not for clout, but because there’s something painfully honest about the way we perform identity, especially in queer spaces.

The collection I’m working on, tentatively titled anon..? focuses on the way we show our bodies but not our faces. How sex and intimacy can be both validating and void filling.
It’s about online hookup culture. It’s about shame and desire. It’s about us.

And yeah, I have to be picky about what I hang in gallery shows. But you better believe the rawest pieces are coming soon, well as soon as I get some life bits figured out…

I Don’t Have My Life Together, But I’m Creating Anyway

I get told I’m the “strong one” a lot. The dependable friend. The one who knows how to help. And maybe that’s true.
But lately I’ve been held together by cheap wine, impulse control issues, and way too many half-written poems in the Notes app.

There’s beauty in that though—in the chaos.
In not having it figured out but still making something.
Still showing up. Still creating.
Even when your brain feels like a manic hellscape.

This site isn’t polished. Neither am I.
But I’m here.
Still making art.
Still finding the words.
Still breathing.
And if you’re here too—thanks. That means more than I can explain.