I only felt comfortable with people who were missing the same pieces of themselves that I was. I’ve always been happiest around characters. Well-defined and brash personalities. Focused charisma and intensity. Rage. Humor. Flaming self-destructiveness. Missing teeth and tattoos and Baggies in the glove compartment. The rebels and outlaws, fuckups and con men—comics—had figured it out. They knew the tricks to get by and get life and get what they needed through charm and device, without feeling the pain of not being whole or the injustice of need. They were, like all artists, masters of the
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