It all started with a hangover so vicious, it felt like my brain had been tenderized by a meat cleaver. I woke up in West Hollywood, groggy from another night of overindulgence, swimming in booze and bad decisions. Too wrecked to paint, too disillusioned to care. The kind of morning where the light feels like an interrogation lamp, forcing you to confront the fact that you’re not just hungover—you’re deeply, chemically, existentially depressed. I knew the drill: Monday would
