Ah, paint. What a curious substance. People… put it on walls and then look at it. The wall paint is then covered with other things, which are eye-fondled as well. Some individuals place paint in a specific sequence atop a surface specialized for paint, called a ‘painting.’
These paintings are one type of object which is hung upon the wall, covering the aforementioned wall paint itself. All that separates the wall paint from the painting is a mere sheet of canvas. How unusual, that someone would choose to spend effort on such a thing.
There is even a show, led by Robert Ross, about painting. This show has good vibes.
An increasingly popular trend is to paint on mass-produced ceramics, at a store. Such a middle class pastime truly shows the commodification of art. Wow, paint sure is amazing.
Everyday, I stare at white walls and paint. My occupation is to do this for eight hours a day, forty hours a week. I have one hundred and four hours of wallstaring under my belt. I think I will name my children after the paint (Whisper White) and brush (Angel Sash) I use. That is the thing gained from my job.
Just… thinking about paint gets me going. Every morning I awake with paint on my hands. My clothes are littered with paint. Will it ever stop? No. Paint has entered my life, my soul, and is now part of me. I am paint.
Paint on the walls, paint on my hands. Paint on my balls, no one understands. I like to paint; boring it ain’t. Wielding my angel sash brush, looks like this room could use a little touch…. up, swish swash I am a swashbuckler. Did I mention paint? I like paint, and paint likes me. Thank you, thank you, goodnight.
Everyday I paint for a job.
Each morning, I go to work to paint.
At seven o’clock on the morn, I commute to my job and begin painting.
Precisely at six o’clock in the hours of the day prior to noon yet after midnight, I awake from my slumber, prepare for the day, and walk to my occupation which involves painting the walls of various residential dorm halls throughout my college’s campus.
Whence the hour striketh six o’clock of the morning, the exact median betwixt midnight and noon, my telephone’s alarm, which I set the night prior to go off at precisely the aforementioned time, beeps in a manner which stirs me from the depths of my dreams and induces me to leap from the bedpost and deactivate the noisemaker; thereafter I urinate in the men’s room, cleanse my retainers and dentures of filthy bacteria, prepare the food that I shall consume at a later hour, and fill my adventure bag with the provisions I deem necessary for a fruitful day on the job, to which I then journey upon completing these preparatory tasks, and involves, collaborating with eight -not six, not seven, and certainly not nine- fellow coworkers who conduct themselves in a similar manner, gathering the tools of the trade -a can containing paint up to an inch in depth, an angel sash brush, a tarp which protects the sensitive carpeting from paint, and two separate covers used for the brush in question at different intervals- designating oneself a room in need of paint, and applying brief ‘touch-ups’ of white whisper non-toxic paint upon the wall until all blemishes are covered in an aesthetic manner, a process which is repeated throughout the course of the eight hours of the work day as well as every five days of the work week, until the eight coworkers and I finish a singular dorm hall, pack our supplies, and venture to the next dorm hall in need of our services, all the aforementioned tasks taken on with intermittent breaks (i.e. sitting on the ‘job’) like so: