Leighton Kelly was born 336 (dog) years ago and grew up in a small hamlet in the mountains of the verdant valley of Saint Cross, California. Because of a centralized vampire infestation plaguing the area he became fascinated with drawing monsters and other creatures of the night. In time he branched out into drawing spaceships and aliens after a brief encounter with the Grays (unprobed) and later when it was age appropriate, he drew Sports Illustrated and Macy’s bra models (probed).
When he finally managed to escape from the state-mandated child prison, he moonlit as a student at the local community college. There he learned that if you wanted only to take art classes and skip everything else on a G.E.D. you just have to stop caring about what people think. This is where he also discovered that if you have a passion for art then no medium of creativity should be safe from idle hands. Contemporaneously, the unified theory of “Zero Fucks Given” began to take root. however, there were many fucks left to give at this early stage and the road to giving them all away was a long and harrowing one.
Ironically, the art of zero fucks must include the collecting of so many fucks that one becomes so tired of fucks that the natural and innate desire to discard every fuck possible blossoms without resistance. To discover this, Leighton traveled realms far and wide learning many of life’s most profound and difficult lessons. Traversing over 36 countries, starting and ending multiple careers, selling vaudeville snake oil to rubes and enjoying a brief stardom in television as the erstwhile Brick Rockson of the Two Renegade Cops fame (syndicated only in Peru and Uruguay and banned in the States), these journeys gave him the most important aspect of living a fuck-free life: embracing the freedom to fail (learned by mistake).
Distilling down a lifetime of peculiar experiences culminated in the terrifying realization that everything he knew to be true was a blatant and obscene lie. Life, it seems, is a juxtaposition between mental slavery and abject freedom tempered only by the capacity to weigh and measure the value of fucks given. Are we not sparks of the Divine housed in corporeal form for a brief time while traveling blindly in a mysterious mirror-world simulation? Can you really be sure that you even exist? Are you certain this reality isn’t a fever dream that you’re just about to wake up from? Did you write this? Has some fractal aspect of your true infinite nature hidden these clues for this exact moment in order to remind you that your irrational belief in fucks is the reason you’ve gotten yourself into this insufferable predicament to begin with? I don’t know but it sounded like a good idea at the time.
Stop Ruining Art
Space Between the Art