Sunday, May 18, 2014

No artist here

The slowest progress ever.

You'd think it would take me less than three weeks to do that shit... but you would be wrong.

I thought about my little theory of only being able to paint/doodle/write when infuriated, so I decided to do my best to prove it wrong. I plopped my ass on the floor, started up my workout playlist, and forcefully got to work.
It's pretty obvious where my inspiration waned... right? It's obvious where I just could no longer deal with mixing colors and shading and all that shit... and just called it a night-- my stubbornness got the best of me.
That mallet and that face are going to be the death of me (not to mention I now have to do the lightening on the black portions of the costume to even out the depth). But look at that bicep (and that enormous tit... if there's anything I know how to draw, it's fucking giant tits... I've had that shit on lock since elementary school).

I've never taken a painting lesson (well, now I have that wine-drinking painting class I did back in October with my friends... but that was about three hours of my life)... so this is all trial and error.
I've never really considered myself a professional artist, due to my lack of education on the subject and the fact that I certainly do not run in the same circles as the "artsy" people.
I'm a nerd. A reclusive nerd who likes nature. A reclusive, good-girl, nerd who would rather be sitting under the stars in the company of two or three friends... laughing.
I am not rambunctious. I am not wild. I don't like drugs... at all.
I am quiet. I am shy. I'm a goody-goody. I crack nerdy jokes almost no one catches... or make random plays on words that-- again-- few understand, and which only expose me as a total weirdo.

Tonight I accompanied my friend to her birthday party at some art expo thing at a warehouse (I have visited far too many warehouses this week... what the fuck?). She's an art teacher, so this is her circle of comfort... she even had a piece of her work on display at this thing.
I tried being comfortable, I swear... but I couldn't.
First, the place reeked of weed from the get-go. I fucking HATE the smell of weed... fucking shit nauseates the hell out of me. I walked around the place fighting a headache within two minutes of entering.
Then there was the fact that people present were obnoxious... not all, but many, too many. So angsty about nothing... so into bullshit... and so, SO into getting drunk and high. Fuck that shit.
I don't know... I guess the word "pretentious" covers the air at this shindig. Nearly impossible to feel at ease... and these people trying entirely too much to be perceived as cool.
And if people weren't being pretentious, they were being far too liberal for my shy, uptight self. No, I will not play the tit game... I don't even flash myself, why the fuck would I flash anyone else? No. No, man. Not game for that game. Call me uptight, call me a prude... I am me, and I do not enjoy exhibiting my body. Never have, never will. Sorry.

The entire vibe didn't jive.
I don't belong in this circle of people either.
I'm such a fucking weirdo... unable to find a niche... because I'm such. a fucking. weirdo.

I'm not smart enough to be with the brainiacs.
I'm not pretty enough to chill with the cool kids.
I'm not... uh... laidback enough to be with the artsy kids.

What the fuck am I, man?
I'm such a fucking oddball.
(I'm not bummed out, just irritated... the weed probably got to me... there really was too much weed)

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