So, a few days back I foolishly accepted a favor to paint a portrait of one of my estranged, thrice removed cousins because she wants to see my prowess as an artist.

First off, I call it a favor instead of a commission; had this been a commission, I would be reimbursed for my time and materials. Unfortunately, the painter has to carry the burden alone.

Then, having never met the girl before, I have no idea what her personality is like. To rub some lemon salt into the proverbial wound, I only have a small, wallet-sized photo of her to work from...

Not exactly an ideal situation, but I tried to make the best of it.

Which really didn't amount to much. I have half of the painting finished, and after the first afternoon... okay, first hour of painting I could tell that I would definitely NOT like how this one turns out. Lo and behold, I was correct.

Call me Cassandra, the prophet of doom.

This is quite possibly the worst attempt at chiaroscuro I have ever committed, and that says a lot if you've seen the travesties I've created before I painted over it with a wash of white.

Then, she has one of those really obscure, zombie-like smiles where you can tell that she's not sincere about it (no wrinkles by her eyes). Due to that insincerity, she looks like she's smirking rather than smiling. At me. Smirking at me.

I swear this painting conspires to bring me down.


And in other news, if I ever get old enough to rely on Depends to keep my defecations in check, shoot me.

While treading the hallway in the dark, I stepped in something quite squishy and... warm. Walked carefully to the bathroom, took a glance at the bottom of my foot and... Yep. Feces. Rather recently created feces.

If I remember correctly, the paternal grandma was the last one to use the restroom that night.


I know. I can practically hear all (three) of you retching at the moment.

Like I said, shoot me. Please.

. . . . . posted:||6:16 AM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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