Artist Interrupted

I am sitting in the airport waiting for a delayed flight out of San Francisco. Four years ago I came to the city by the bay with a notebook full of drunken musings and a head full of my best ideas, which included becoming an artist of some sort who could drink all day like my heroes at the time, Charles Bukowski and Jack Kerouac. I was leaving behind a worried family, a nearly ruined education, a police record and a couple of vengeful thugs who would have hurt me if they could.