A teller of tales that end in tragedy or despair. A creator of drawings and paintings that only a child could love. A maker of music that abuses and offends the ears. A creator of a washed up sex crazed burnout who has given performance art a disturbing vibrant pulse. A snapper of pictures that age and outdate themselves once taken. A writer of stories that glorify sex deprived characters as heroes and a recorder of dialogue between Jesus and a Robot. A loather of supporters and believers of the military. A cringer around the company of artsy fartsy pretentious poets and writers. A despiser of fakes, frauds and liars. A lover of true friends, true family and of wife and animals. A acceptor of the unaccepted. A believer of the unbelievable. A taker of substances. A user of metaphors and an abuser of language and grammar.
I am Timothy Bradley Wishborne and was born in New York. At the age of ten my dad was sentenced to ten years for tax invasion and possession of narcotics and my mother was set on cleaning up and checking herself into rehab so I then moved to Los Angeles to live with my grandparents. I spent the next twenty years getting drunk, sniffing, swallowing, smoking just about anything and everything. I worked in the film industry as a stunt double for about seven years. I did some low level amateur adult films and I worked as a male escort for about a year. When I was twenty-nine, I got fucked up doing a stunt for some bullshit television series called Central Park West. It ended my stunt career but gave my a habit supporting pension. I then spent the next six years traveling the states. Sleeping on floors, in rail cars, on benches, anywhere and everywhere. I met a lot of good people, lots of bad ones and many not remembered ones. I’ve been in and out of rehab, been locked up about a dozen times and have seen and done shit, you people wouldn’t believe. I have mellowed out the last year, laid off the hard drugs and hard booze. Trying to stop my womanizing ways, trying to do more reading and crafts and trying to mend some bridges I had burned in the past. Hell, I’ve even kind of gotten myself an address these past five months but all of this doesn’t mean that I still won’t take you over my knee and give you a brutal spanking just because I feel like it. My therapists says that I have extensive problems, overreact quite a bit and that carrying an assortment of weapons around with me on a daily basis may be problematic. I ignore criticism by pretending that the criticizer complimented me, I often take compliments and random acts of kindness as some sort of death threat and this has seemed to of created awkward interactions with the following…family members, bosses, law enforcement, members of the council, clergy folk, meter maids, baggers at grocery stores, my therapist, animals, neighbors and my posse of make believe pals. I often feel like Ash and hippies are evil spirited deadites, if you pick up what I'm putting down but do know that there’s a rock about one mile from the shore and given what I know about that rock, it’s mainly populated by seals and I strongly suggest to you that you not hang out there because the seal is a wily and a vicious creature that will bite you if you give him half a chance. And the seal has a mind set on violence and is the sworn enemy of man. Now when I say that the seal is vicious I use the term advisedly according to webster's 11th new collegiate definition 4b. which states that vicious means marked by ferocity and offers as a synonym...savage. The seal has a mind full of evil designs and will harm you and laugh about it. The seal is not a creature you want to toy with.
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