Being An Artist is Boring

At least today it is. I spent the whole day filling in forms, updating my c.v., burning cd's, sticking things in envelopes, photocopying (at my own home! I love my printer), going to the post office. Waiting in line. Realizing that I could have brought something else with me that needed urgent mailing. Came home and realized the form was more complicated than I thought. Poop.

My fingernails are disgusting. I mean, look at them! Ugh, bits of grimey-grimeness. Blah. And all uneven. I am ashamed of these fingernails. But the nail trimmer is lost in a sea of Thirza flotsam and jetsam. I am not an artist who can't clean, I'm a performance of a forgotten seawreck.

No really, where is the nail clipper? I'm freaking out!

Okay, whew! Found one.

I think the shipwreck happened somewhere in the Georgia Straight, involving a butch with far too many things and no organizational thought.

In the hospital they called me "disorganized." I just thought, dear God, I've been disorganized my whole life! Go look in my room if you don't believe me. Once I bought a book called How To Get Organized and I lost it.

True story.

I want chips. I wish I could get chips teleported to me. No, I mustn't. They are bad for me, but how can little potatoes with seasoning on it be bad? I guess they aren't potatoes anymore are they? They're genetically modified jellyfish-orangutan chips. Just my luck, to be born into a world where these things happen and yet there's still no teleportation device.

Oh, but I have the new Coke. It's called C2. Can you believe that? I'm drinking C2. Twice the damage to the indigenous peoples, but with reduced carbs and calories. I'm going to try it now.

A little less bite. Hmm, not bad. An aftertaste of guilt and shame at being complicit in the oppression of others.

Plus I got a little squat gnome-like can. If a tin can could be a gnome, this one definately is.