My children hate me. And with good reason

Dear Void

This is a bit of a saga but bear with me.

I’m not a good parent.  But if I paint a pitcher for each of the children’s bedrooms, that will surely mitigate years of neglect, right?

What do they like? Mmmmmmmmmmmm. The big one likes racing cars and the little one likes bugs and dirt (actually, I don’t even know what the fuck they like.  In fact, I would be hard pressed to pick their faces out of a Norwegian line-up).

Okay, I’ll paint them something they’ll like BUT I’LL MAKE IT MOSTLY ABOUT ME.  And I’ll paint two pitchers that are thematically linked thus satisfying my perpetual narcissism.  Genius!

And here you can witness the first draft:

 

Alright, I have to admit I rather like the frog, even if it is a bit existentially macabre.  But the burn-out pitcher?  I wasn’t happy with it.  It wasn’t enough about me.  I decided to tool it up a bit:

 

Check out that masking-taped crisp line!  Is anyone else getting a tingly feeling in the groin and/or surrounding areas? Just me?  At any rate, the downinahole craft is really coming together!

But then I decided that the green paint didn’t match my shoes and this penultimate tweak happened:

 

You will have noticed that the frog changed very little.  Because I liked it.  Fuck the children, this is my art, you  fascist stuffed-shirt!

I didn’t juxtapose* the pitchers digitally, by the bye, what you’re seeing there is one canvas perilously balancing atop the other.

My kids could not have been less intersested in those pitchers.  Not because of that, but for a thousand other reasons

Soc is a fraud

downinahole

*a little foreshadowing there, for I am not only a talented pitcher doer but a crafty story maker.    

 And I’m good at word writing as well as good grammar user too.

I really am a fucking fraud