“Every artist was first an amateur.” -RWE
Cursing, I reach around on the floor to find the paint bottle I just dropped. Why do I keep messing up? Crumpling up the canvas paper and throwing it into this trash, seems like all I do lately. I need some muse. I crumple up another canvas sheet.
Putting my hand up, I plop my head down on it, so that my chin is resting on my palm. What could I do to find muse? Where could I go? What could I see? That’s it! I rummage around for my sneakers and socks in my room and when I return with them on, I notice there’s blue paint all over the floor where I had just dropped the paint bottle.
Running to the kitchen, I grab a paper towel, but instead of getting one, I accentually knock over the roll and it unravels throughout the kitchen. I pick up one of the sheets, deciding to get back to picking that up, because this issue is more important and glide over to the sink-well glide is a bad word, because I’m not so graceful-to wet the paper towel.
Heading back to the painting area, I’m going as fast as I can with out hitting something or tripping, and I end up hitting the toe of my shoe on the wicker table in front of the big, ugly, brown couch. Good thing I’m wearing my sneakers, because that would have hurt. I note for the thousandth time that my roommate needs better design skills if she’s ever going to be an interior designer. Reaching the painting area, I try to bend gracefully to the floor-remember I’m not graceful at all-and end up face planting into the blue paint.
I get up on my knees and rub the floor slowly with the paper towel-my face can wait, because it will come off my face later, granted with some scrubbing, but not the floor. I remember my mother’s words of how to get paint off the floor if it’s still wet, Don’t scrub! Move the wet towel slowly in circles around the area of paint on the floor and it will come off easily. So, I do as she would have said. Even if she’s an asshole.
It finally comes completely off the floor, so I get up off the floor and trudge to the kitchen to pick up the paper towels and get this crap off my face. In the kitchen-which, I might add, is only five steps away from the living room and two steps away from the painting area, which is just another part of the living room-I throw away the wet, and now blue paper towel. I bend over, grabbing the roll of clean-but now not so clean-paper towels, slowly, but surely, rolling them back up as neatly as possible, which isn’t very neat, but it’ll work to be able to put them back on whatever that white thing hanging up under the cabinets is called. I hang it back up on the flimsy white thing, thinking, I know I could make a better way to hold paper towels, without it falling every chance it gets.
The kitchen countertops are light green, which I think is probably the coolest part about this apartment, while the decor in the kitchen is drab. Kate, my roommate and, may I add, sort of best friend, says, If you have that bright of countertops, you shouldn’t have anything bright around them, unless it’s in small doses. I kind of agree with that, actually. Maybe she is sort of good at this design crap.
Walking over to the sink again i slowly get a paper towel from next to it, out of that stupid, flimsy, white thing. This time-thankfully-it doesn’t collapse. I, then, wet the paper towel and try the slow circles on my face to see if the trick works on faces, too. Slowly, but surely, the paint starts to come off onto the towel. So, I go do the rest in the bathroom to make sure I get it all.
As I finish getting all the blue off of my face, I notice there still a faded blotch of blue thats not coming off. I touch it with my finger to see what it is. I step back as I poke it, because it hurts. I have a bruise from my face plant, Awesome!
Now what was my plan again? Oh right! I was going to take a walk! “Sparky!” I yell, trying to figure out where my labrador is hiding in the room. She snorts and I realize she’s asleep between the couch and the blue side table-pushing on the floor lamp every time she snores, I might add. That damn thing is going to fall over again. It’s almost as flimsy as the white thingy-whatever it’s called.
I decide to leave Sparky behind, since she obviously isn’t going to move, even if I get a treat. She’s a very lazy dog. I rescued her from a shelter about two years ago, she was malnourished and had been used for dog fighting, but for some reason, even though she was mean to the workers at the shelter, she was really sweet to me. The next day, I went back to see if she was still there and had actually bought her a toy that you can put treats in, so the dog takes its time trying to get out their prize. She loved it. The third day, when I came back, the worker there was the same as the day before. She said that I was the only person that Sparky would play with or even get close to. I fed her for the worker, so that maybe she would eat something. She did. I took her home that day. Never thought I would have adopted a dog, much less her. I usually only go to the shelter to see and pet the dogs and cats, but that day was different, really different.
I walk out the door and then back track to grab my keys off the cute little hooks by the door that Kate just bought at the Dollar General. They were apparently only a dollar, so she had to get them. Finally I exit the apartment, lock the door, and head down the stairs. While making my way down three flights of stairs I think about how it’s a wonder that I haven’t fallen down these stairs. And then I think one word. YET.
I pull open the door to the street. Damn this door is too heavy. Then, I walk out into the cool fall air. I’m immediately glad I took a walk. The air feels good on my face. With what little trees are around, the leaves have fallen to the ground and it smells of fall. I don’t know why, but fall always smells different than any other season to me. It just has a distinct smell. It’s hard to explain.
I attach my keys with my trusty, old keychain hook on my pants and decide to skip down the street. As I’m skipping, I hear sounds of far away traffic and a siren. No one ever comes down this street, because it’s what me and Kate call a useless street. There are bigger streets around it that most people take, because this one only goes one way.
I skip along and then slow down and stare up at the stars. It’s a beautiful night, but you can only barely make out the stars, because of the city lights-even though we’re on the edge of the city. I hear a tingle, then a plop. I can’t figure out what it is at first, but then I realize the trusty keychain broke and my keys fell in the gutter.
I get on my knees, even though the street is wet, and look into the gutter. I would have given up on them if Kate was home, but she’s off with her new fling or whatever they call it nowadays. Pulling open the gutter, I reach my hand in as far as I can and I almost get to them. I can’t reach so I get onto my stomach, disgusted by the dirty street and reach again.
I hear the sirens coming really close, but I assume that they are on the street next to me, so I keep trying to get my keys. Then I black out.