2004-08-27 @ 11:07 p.m.
Every week and a half or so, I get an e-mail from Classmates.com. It's a national website dedicated to reminding us of the four most important years of your life. High School!
And for the relatively low price of $59.95, we can catch up on all the
You don't think people tell the unvarnished truth in these mini bios, do you?
I lied in my biography. Sure. I lied mostly by omission. Like that I'm on disability for mental illness, and that I have to save up cans for recycling so that I have enough money to buy necessities like toilet paper and cat food and that the reason I'm not married is because I'm hung up on a married man and can't tear myself away long enough for a date with somebody who is available.
That just doesn't play well on the "What have you done with your life?" survey in high school reunionland.
I, of course, have never paid the $59.95 fee for Classmates.com, but I do know that the other biographies are probably similar to mine. Slightly skewed.
They probably tell of their successes, like: I'm married. I have three kids. I have a successful business. I volunteer time down at the burn unit and recently gave a lung to a homeless child with one arm. But you have to know there's more to the story...
Like I'm married, but I cheat with my admin. assistant, Twyla. Yes, I have three kids with my wife. But also one with our former Ecuadorian nanny. Sure I have a successful business, but only after stealing $125,000 from my business partner in 1995 and then killing him with a Samurai sword and burying him under the new pool we had built with the miniature waterfalls. And I definitely volunteer my time, but only so I can meet Bruce, our pool cleaning guy, down at the IHOP parking lot for a blow job. What's that about a homeless kid? Sure I think I gave him a quarter. I really can't remember though. Do you have any cocaine?
So much for truth at Classmates.com.
It was a largely overwhelming day. Its not that I did anything. I just sat in my living room and decided that my house is getting too small to contain all of the artwork that I am producing. There are sketchbooks and canvases all over the floor and chairs. I have ripped out pages of pastel drawings propped up against the doorway leading into my bedroom. There is shit everywhere and I don't know what to do with it.
And being my own manic self, I want to keep producing. I was even a naughty starving artist today. I went to Michael's, which is an art supply store, and with what little money I have left for the month, I bought a matt frame for the piece of art I'm submitting to the University show. And then I had to have them cut to size which cost a whopping $5...just to cut a freakin' piece of cardboard. My mother asked me why I didn't just do it myself. I don't have the tools to cut heavy cardboard for one thing, and Lord knows, I could never cut it straight.
And then walking around the store, with my heavy glass frame in hand, I spotted two 16X20 canvases on sale for $5. I have had such an incredible urge to paint these last few days, that I stupidly picked those up too. I now have less than about $40 in the bank.
Bad Witty. Very bad Witty.
I think part of it, is that I'm very depressed. I haven't heard from Married Guy much in the last three weeks. Communication between us have been minimal and I always fall apart when that happens. So what do I do?
And then I went even further. I drove down to another art supply store, further down the boulevard, because I decided that the great masterpiece I was going to paint today, needed to be painted with black acrylic. That is one of the few colors I don't have.
So I went to the bigger, trendier, and more expensive art supply store. I don't know much about acrylics since I'm new to them, so I was mainly just looking for "Black". Hmmm, that should be easy. So I was standing in the paint aisle, looking all appropriately angsty and artsy, when suddenly this guy appeared out of nowhere. Obviously an artist. Dressed in jeans and a blue paint splattered T-shirt. At least I think he was. I was afraid to look at him. Why? He was a real artist. And he was like a human dynamo.
Here I was standing inert, in front of the black acrylic tubes, and he set down his shopping basket, not two feet from my feet. And then suddenly he was swirling all around me, up and down the paint aisle, yanking tubes off the hooks and slam dunking them into the basket. And I mean hard. And he was tossing some of them from a distance too. Like if they missed they would have hit me.
And I was kind of thrilled. And kinda scared. Like who was this guy? I really like guys who are energetic and exude manic manicness. But I was also afraid to look at him. I was essentially frozen to the spot in stark terror. Why? Because he might possibly be Potential Art Husband #3. Gulp.
He must have slam dunked about 12 tubes of paint, before I realized that I was probably in his way, so I went and paid for my single tube of paint, went outside and then...eep... went back inside. ("A" would have been so proud).
I wanted to see the Human Dynamo again. I figured he was probably up at the counter by now, since he was so good at multitasking. So I walked up a side aisle with a view of the counter, and you know what?
I was too scared to look at him. Was that him at the counter? I couldn't really tell. I hadn't really gotten a good look at him. He was like hologram man. So unfortunately, I scurried out to my car, in something that resembled stark terror, and went home and ate a cookie.
Witty, what are we going to do with you? You are a total failure in social interaction. The only way you will ever meet someone, is if somebody straps you to a table and forces you to meet their rich paleontologist brother Alan, who collects British sports cars and James Bond memorabilia. And even then, I'll choke, I'm sure.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty