The lack of a brush

At 3 in the morning, my cup of paintbrushes sit by the lamp, not being used. I knew they should be. That's exactly why I was up and I knew it. I wanted to paint. I wanted to paint so badly. Yet here I am, in front of a computer, typing away about Marvell.

Colin met me on the train. Just paint, right? he said. I laughed and took the can he was holding out to me. It's just paint. Colin shrugged and we passed into the burbs. I tucked the can gently into my bag, hoping it didn't make too much noise. It's just paint.

Carmen was in China that week. They didn't catch her, again. They never did, the dumb kids. Even I knew that the Nile was in Egypt. I sighed and picked up a book.

Camille's flute got stolen yesterday. Matt stole it and hid it in the lab. She loved him, or would, I knew. I knew the moment I met him. I hope he never meets her I told Javier in the workshop over diagrams of cardboard chairs. Javier laughed as he picked up a can. I looked at it. It's just paint, he said, handing it to me.

I looked at the canvas in front of me. You know, I said to Mully, all painting is is pushing chemicals around on a canvas. It's all about illusion. This isn't anything but cloth and chemical right here. Crazy huh?

She looked at me like I was stupid, but I was right. It's just paint.

But not at 3 in the morning. At 3 in the morning it is my heart's desire, and that is exactly why my paper is only a page and a half after five hours of doing absolutely nothing.

Stunning Blue Eyes

You joke about exposing yourself and then you look at me. "I'm sorry, we're offending you."

"I'm from DC, I've heard worse" I answer. From Brad, Jack, Will, Colin, Josh. It's a life I left. But you don't know that. You don't know that you are just like them. Down to your gorgeous blue eyes and your two parent-less children and your long record of transgressions.

And when I say that I can't take a break and ignore the customer, you say "You work at McDonalds."

"Apparently you don't know me at all" I say to you. What does that even mean, other than I am getting paid by a corporate presence to take food orders from insomniacs like myself? No, Mr. Hyde, I do not work at McDonalds; you do. I stay awake at McDonalds, I wash dishes at McDonalds, I schmooze people under the name McDonalds. But I also leave McDonalds. I do homework. I paint pictures, I play the piano, I write papers, I sing songs, I hold meetings, I read. And you sleep. You don't even leave to sleep. You work at McDonalds and you sleep, and I do not presume to know anything about that life.

So, my blue eyed monster of a man, what now? It is far more offensive for you to apologize for your crudeness than it is for you to be crude at all. Because while you are foolish and rude to make such a response, you are arrogant to sum my individuality into a stereotype.