SHIT DOESN’T HAPPEN.
IT SHAPES YOU, STAİNS YOU.

“SHIT HAPPENS” is not a complaint—it’s a manifesto carved in scars. On BadAss Planet, there’s no room for sanitized suffering or polite breakdowns. Pain is loud. Drama is constant. And chaos isn’t a phase—it’s the background noise of truth. The figure here doesn’t cry for help—it laughs at your pity and lights a cigarette with your expectations.

Visually, the composition is a collage of contradictions—rage, sex, numbness, self-awareness, and satire collide.Typography punches through the canvas like confessions in capital letters. “I am not your second choice,” “Mama’s boy,” “Everything you wanted to ask”—each phrase is both a wound and a weapon. The colors bleed like bruises. The lines twist like nerves. This isn’t art that seeks resolution—it thrives in the unresolved.

In this universe, breakdown is just another form of movement. “SHIT HAPPENS” doesn’t excuse the mess—it celebrates it. It’s a portrait of someone who’s not trying to fix the chaos, but to own it—loud, wild, and untamed. Because on BadAss Planet, survival isn’t about control—it’s about turning the shit into your signature.