For almost a year I have worked this shitty retail job. I’ve become invaluable to the rapidly changing cast of fools who share my mistake of applying. I perform my job as I should, and do what must be done to get everyone home on time. That’s all they can ask of me. I will not exceed expectations for an insulting paycheck from this retail hellscape. And if they sometimes choose to stick me in a plexiglass cage, with a desk full of office supplies and meaningless tasks to complete, I’m not working. Over the last year I have made dozens of drawings like this one. I stick them up beneath the desk as a private gallery to the other lonely souls trapped in the plexi prison. Sometimes the others contribute, there’s a lot of cracked out Garfields. Regularly my maniac boss or one of her acolytes will rip down my gallery, leaving me to start all over. This is fine. The censorship only fuels me. Public art is a temporary thing, that’s what gives it meaning. However, I am still very upset about the loss of my Willem Dafoe portrait. That’s something I can’t forgive. Banksy is wet pajamas. Public art is for the public.