The Reaper & Me

At age 28, I tattooed a grim reaper on myself—drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette. No deep meaning at the time. I just thought it looked cool. Felt right. Like some weird inside joke I hadn’t figured out yet.

But now? I look at it and think—yeah. That’s me. A self-portrait. Not just the coffee and smoke (though those are basically fused to my hands), but the vibe. The stillness. The humor in heaviness. The comfort in discomfort.

And the number? 24.

My favourite number.

My signature.

But the real shit came at 27.

There’s something about that age.

The 27 Club isn’t just some cursed myth—it’s a moment. A mirror. A quiet checkpoint for artists and overthinkers.

I felt it.

Deeply.

But I made it through.

And then I marked it.

Not with words.

Not with a speech.

Just a reaper, a cigarette, and a coffee.

Spontaneity is weird like that. Sometimes it’s reckless. Sometimes it’s divine. Sometimes it’s just you saying “yes” to something before your brain has time to get in the way.

I think that’s what this tattoo was. A yes. A nod to the version of me that made it through. A wink to the void. A thank you to the chaos.

We don’t always know why we do what we do. But every now and then, life gives us context after the fact. You act. Then you understand.

That’s why I don’t regret being spontaneous anymore. I don’t need everything to make sense right away. Sometimes, it’s more important that it feels right in the moment.

And this? This felt right.

I never believed I could become an artist. Because I never really believed in myself. But now I do. Because a bunch of artists told me I can. And they were right.

Everyone is an artist—in their own way.

Even me.

(Maybe that’s what I was meditating on all along.)

Happy Monday, my dudes.

Let’s get that fucking bread.

Talk soon—and thank you.

For believing in me.

When I didn’t.

me