seth foster

associate at idyllwild brewpub

About

please be mindful of the following triggers while reading seth's biography : drug use , crime , divorce . there is also a strong chance that these subjects will be brought up in conversations / threads with this muse .
BIOGRAPHY
you’re far too young to know that when your mother leaves you with tears streaming down her face , it means she isn’t returning . it takes you two weeks of pestering your older sister , gabs as you call her , to understand where your mother has gone . or , rather , why she has gone . you’re only seven and gabs is thirteen and she knows the world like the back of her hand and the universe like her palm and so she tells you that your parents have been fighting for as long as she can remember and that half of marriages end in divorce and that mom was probably back with the bartender she cheated on dad with the first time . you understand very little of what she tells you , but you do understand that she isn’t coming back .

except that , when you’re sixteen and your hair is fried from bleaching it too much and most of your clothing has holes from cigarette embers or drug - related trauma , your mother returns , tries to stitch you back into the person you were before she left . but , you were just a kid then , knew very little , thought the world of her and then she left . you scream at each other nearly every night for weeks until you decide not to speak at all . you can’t believe your father has opened his home back to her , beg gabs to return home from her study - abroad in france , but that’s too selfish of you and you know it . you spend most of her first summer back holed up in your room , smoking weed and cheap cigarettes and painting and sketching and doodling for your comic book series on shitty mothers . art became an escape for you when she left the first time and it’s something that’s always just … stuck .

but , art isn’t your only escape and you know this more than anyone . you find yourself often trespassing into buildings , painting dicks and swears and ‘ fuck the system’s ’ with cans of spray paint , climbing onto rooftops that don’t belong to you and screaming at the tops of your lungs just to feel something . you find yourself doing that even more now that the murders have become more rampant in the town you've been calling home for four years now. you know that there's more to life than living in fear, and you aren't necessarily afraid, but damn if you aren't ready to die yet.