I’m reading a book that is, what’s it called, when you keep, you start with one thing and you keep going and going and going until you have like a mountain of something, like little bits of paper that build up into something 3D. It’s like every time there’s a couple of pages there’s someone else narrating the book. There must be a million books like this. And now there’s this one guy who’s a metrics person who sees everything in terms of percentages and numbers and all that and is trying to figure out how he can get with this woman whom he works with who’s also a metrics person and talks about typicals. So it’s like he and his sister are sitting looking at some beautiful view and he knows that he’s calculating some kind of metrics thing. She’s looking at it and just thinking, this is so beautiful. And I’m like, there are a million people in between this. Life isn’t just divided into two kinds of people. At the same time my sister once said to me, you think you’re really unique and special and weird but you’re not that different from anyone else. That was pretty flattening said by a, I don’t know how to describe her. Then I decided to take a picture of my outfit because it was completely random. I got this dress because it was only $8 on Amazon and made by Betsy Johnson. The first time I tried it on I thought it wasn’t going to fit and I wore it today for no apparent reason to work because I ended up making a lot of oil paintings which I hadn’t planned to do at all because I was avoiding my paperwork and it’s Thursday. Then I started talking to my psychiatrist about how hard it was to figure out how to not get paint everywhere in the fucking room because I put on clothes to paint in and then made a mess painting. I don’t even bother to notice what I do with the brushes. I would either paint on the brushes and put them in old water anyway. Then you get your hands full of paint and then your socks full of paint. Then I have to take off my socks and put them somewhere and then take everything off my hands and find out that somehow orange red paint is on its way to the bathroom in spots. Then I have to clean that off and consider whether to tell two people who come into my studio tomorrow to wear clothes for making art so that they don’t get hit by an oil painting. Then suddenly I’m talking about something else after he tries to solve my problem by saying you could just not use oil paint. He doesn’t know what oil paint is because he’s a weird kind of psychiatrist that is completely normal and has never wanted to kill himself. I know this because he is completely normal. I know some crazy psychiatrists and he’s the most normal psychiatrist I’ve ever met. I’m very successful and I’ve known him over 20 years. Why am I talking about him? Because he can’t help me with my ADHD at all. Then I said no you don’t understand. Oil paint is oil paint. You cannot. Then I can’t use oil paint. I can’t make these pieces. Actually I’m having fun using oil paint again. Then he tries to solve the dilemma because I was talking to him about people who use oil paint and they’re very careful. They put down something like a tarp and then they clean their brushes properly. Every time they open a tube of paint they put the top back on and put it back. Whereas I tried using gloves and realized that meant the paint went everywhere except my hands. Instead I’ve been just pouring tubes of paint everywhere but not really everywhere. He couldn’t solve my problem because I didn’t want him to solve it. I just wanted to tell him about it. I was shocked that he didn’t know what oil paint was because I thought everyone, most people know even if they don’t understand it. So I told him it’s like what Van Gogh uses. Of course I have an affinity for Van Gogh because he was mentally ill and used a lot of oil paint on his paintings. Anyways I’m trying to prove that I’m completely random and unique. That’s the only thing I got from having an ADHD brain while also becoming hermit-like and writing things that have no interest to them. Unlike the book I’m reading by some Pulitzer Prize winning person. Even though all the books I’ve been reading lately that are novels have some feel to it like the people in it aren’t real people, which they aren’t. People make people too much into characters that they forget to have mystery in. And the mystery turns into something like some guy who grows up perfect and then ends up a drug addict. And ends up then failing miserably and then succeeding again after he tries to kill himself. But he’s still not of interest once he stops being a person who fell into failure and becomes the story of coming back from that. And that being his story being something he uses as a voluntation. And then you’re back to his personality being disgusting. And for a minute you thought his personality wasn’t disgusting because he was fascinated with his drug dealer and wanted to know him and socialize with him. And failed miserably from his perfect life. Anyway, then I looked at what I was wearing and thought I had no idea I would put this combination together. Luckily no one except one or two people seem to read this blog. I can’t imagine. This is just ramblings of uninteresting data, I guess. Trying to convince myself that there’s something unique about me in order to not be depressed. That life seems to just consist of doing the same thing every day. And then taking a break from doing the same thing every day. And making paintings but feeling like the guy who was hidden in his basement making thousands and thousands of pages of drawings. But then after he died all these people spent thousands and thousands of hours writing long treatises. Analyzing his weird, self-taught, obsessive drawings of I don’t know what. Whereas I’m not making anything like that and won’t be known when I die. He did over ten thousand drawings of weird girls in this sort of book but he wasn’t a pervert; he had schizophrenia and definitely had been abused….
6 Impossible Things For Breakfast 