jason turner will tell you he is an artist.

he will tell you he has a loft in soho, where he takes of his shirt, boldly splashing paint over canvases against the exposed wood beams, lit cigarette dangling out of his mouth; completely fucked up on heroin.

he will tell you he has beautiful parisian boys who stop by and model nude for him, usually deteriorating to debauch sex sessions.

he says this while pumping gas off the new jersey turnpike. turning tricks for cigarettes, and dreaming of being someone else.

you can't fool me jason turner.