2006-05-18 @ 11:40 p.m.
Talk about Angst Central. Just call 1-800-awittykitty the last couple of days and youíd probably get a recording of some girl running around screaming. The reason? Iím not sure. Okay, I kinda know. It could be tied to the anger work Iíve been doing with ďAĒ. It could be related to the big art conference Iím working tomorrow. It could even be my ever growing unhappiness with work and lack of love life. My solution? Do you really want to know? Lots and lots of recent dates with B.O.B. (battery operated boyfriend). Iíve even managed to wear out the damn batteries on L.B. (Lesser Bob -- the smaller one). Plus just a little while ago, when a brief thunderstorm came through and I had to pull the plug on my computer, I sat here thinking...hmmm, no computer....what do I want to do? Do I want to turn on Oprah? No. Do I go eat some walnuts, since I just read an article that said that walnuts are good for people in bad moods. No. Then what do I want to do? What exactly do I want to do?
But witty, isnít that like your third date with B.O.B. in the last
Hey, a girlís gotta do what a girlís gotta do, right?
I think foremost on my mind right now is the art conference. I even managed to have an angst dream about that. I dreamt that I was at the conference, being all helpful to people, telling them to go this way to this artistís lecture and that way to that artistís lecture, when I suddenly realized I was only wearing my panties and bra. Arrghhhhhh!!!!! And the thing about my dreams is that people never tell me that Iím doing something stupid. They just at me like Iím invisible. In fact, I donít even think I have any interactions with the people in my dreams. And the only attention I get in real life is when my mom introduces me to people and picks lint off my clothes. I guess that makes her appear like an attentive mother....to pick lint off her 48 year old daughterís clothing.
Anyhoo, the art conference is tomorrow and to be honest, I still donít know what my role is in it. I vaguely know that Iím going to be at the registration table at 8 a.m. I donít even know if I have free admission to the event. I assume I do since I volunteered my time to help put it together. But still, nothing has officially been said like, ďOh witty, I hope to see you at so and soís demonstration tomorrow.Ē Or ďI really want you to meet so and so, since he could really help you learn foreshortening.Ē Or even ďIíll save you a seat ya damn pain in the ass!Ē I guess Iím still confused about things.
I did go to my art class last night....after an energetic priming of the pump (wink, wink)...mainly to bring my two paintings (the John Lennon and Yoko one and the Janis Joplin one) for the conference show. I had seen our Fearless Art Leader earlier in the day and he had said something about the fact that our model might be missing in action, which I thought was really code for....argh....the Nazi Model might be filling in for the 59th week in a row. But I did carry my art supplies up with me just in case. And then as soon as I walked in, Charlemagne announced my name at about 3000 decibals, much to my chagrin and then ran over and gave me the official French manís kisses on both cheeks, which caused me to blush even further. Heís been out for a while, which means my cache of man kisses has been downright anemic (read: non-existent). I did quickly give my paintings to our Fearless Art Leader. I was afraid Charlemagne might trample them in his enthusiasm.
At first I didnít see any model and my heart sank, like oh no, its the Nazi Model again, but then I said something to Fearless and he said, ďLeeís modeling tonightĒ and pointed over towards the most utterly stunning and gorgeous male model we have. Young. Tender. Tasty. Schwwwinggg! Heís only modeled about 3 times, but heís been lovely and memorable all three times with his Adonis-like body and all its beautiful attachments. I think the only difference this time was the addition of a beard. Iím not a real big fan of facial hair personally, but it was something new to draw, along with his wild tangle of curly hair. Yum! I love curly hair on men. Abso-frookiní love it. Sex-hay!
But, oh my, how did he get a blue penis? Not really sure. Poetic license, I guess. heh heh! Anyways, afterwards I chatted with ďLĒ the Hippie Chick and we were both professing our deep love for our boy model and how happy we were to F.I.N.A.L.L.Y. have someone of the male persuasion model for us after 47 weeks in a row of either the Nazi model or skinny chicks on prozac. So see, it really doesnít take THAT much to make me happy. Just a couple of Frenchman kisses, a male model who looks like a Greek god and a battery operated device that never says no.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty