My parents hate me too. And with good reason

Dear void

When I was sixteen I had a particular view of myself.   It was as delusional then as it is now.

Irony abounds:  I thought of myself as bookish (I was practically illiterate), cultured (I was then, and still am, a card carrying bogan) and artistic (As is plainly apparent in these pages, I can’t paint to save my life).

Here’s how I saw myself:

 

You see that hat? 

Never owned one.

You see that glass? 

Don’t know what it was meant to be for.

You see that candle? 

Still can’t paint candles. 

You see that egg timer? 

I’ve no fucking idea what that means.

I don’t need to tell you that the perspective is off, or that the lines are clumsy and ham-handed.  You can see that for yourself. I couldn't paint hands then and I can't paint hands now.  So fuck you.

I gave this pitcher to my parents because I’m a tight-arse.

And I didn’t even frame it. They did. And you can bet your life that frame cost more than the canvas. 

At this time Soc hides his face

 Jump forward several years to this:

It is a remarkably accurate rendition, IMHO, of my father.  Something I’m not sure he’d readily cop to. 

The brickwork is fine, but it’s annoyingly off-centre and that bugs the shit out of me.  Still, spilt milk et cetera.

Fuck you, I like this one. But
Soc is a fraud

downinahole