Alyson

I tried painting on Monday. I tried again last night. I wish I could say, “Status: Crying about my art” in an ironic way, but…

I can’t help but think that one of my only college acceptances—Parsons, The New School—is a fraud, that I’m a fraud. Everyone I know doesn’t know me. There are those who think I’m better than I am; my Zine Club success and occasional Instagram roundups precede me. Then there are those who think I’m worth nothing because I defected from their cult, refused to fill the chip on their shoulder. When I finally touch home, I realize that neither has any truth about me, that I am truly alone, and that I have to keep painting. ♦