I suppose it would be safe to say I’ve had a pretty cushy life up to now–and arguable that I still do. I will be the first to admit that it doesn’t get much better than 17 years of waking up at 9, doing school in whatever and wherever I want, and then having nearly zero encumbrances to take the place of my free time.
Then I got a job–one at the time I thought quite difficult. I endured the stress of this job and my difficult school life for nearly a year, and the toll upon my life was heavy–it was all I could do to get 5 hrs of free time a day.
After enduring this scarring experience, I was given the opportunity of having a real, full time job. To a newly graduated highschooler with gads of free time and nothing to do with it, not to mention the imposing cost of higher education looming in my vision, this sounded like the best possible option I had–it probably was, and still is. But I am not of that opinion when I wake up at the overly righteous hour of 5:00. At that point shooting myself, or quitting, seems like the best option. Neither of those would be the best option. I have told myself that every morning for the last two months.
During this eternal period of two months, I have rarely read and never written. I think it would be fair to say in retrospect I hate the last two months of my life. To cure this unendurable hatred, I have decided to deal with life and make time to write, and what better to write about what you are surrounded with. Consequently, I will be writing about interior acrylic latex satin paint, top gun 200 calk, and broken paintbrushes. On second thought, that sounds like horror to write and a nightmare to read. I’ve looked around and I can’t seem to see any interesting thing in my life to write about, so I will have to write about my exhausting and sometimes comical encounters with interior acrylic latex satin paint, top gun 200 calk, and broken paintbrushes.
Be aware: the following stories will be filled with many tales of my losing/breaking others tools, failing to correctly doing, and passing gas at awkward times.
Let’s take that last example as my first story–a sort of awkward icebreaker. I was having a–let’s call it a reaction–to my turkey sandwich, and when times get tough, the tough find a way to alleviate the pressure. I hope I don’t need to explain anymore. Anyway, I alleviate, and within thirty seconds the homeowner decides there’s something in that room he needs. I think it’s obvious that there was an awkward silence for the thirty seconds he was in that room, and there was little I could do but cringe until he left. That has not been a solitary experience.
For the next installment of A Painter’s Story, tune in whenever I happen to have enough energy to put to paper my awkward moments.