Important ANNOUNCEMENT. Not really.
DramaTweets
In a sad, no, correction - PATHETIC attempt to make myself forget I was depressed for some lame-@** reason I refuse to put in here, I painted those ceramic thingies found in one of the malls here.
Sat across two kids who were probably 8 or 10 years old. (Their names were Camille and Christine.) (They're cousins.) (Camille paints a kick-butt castle, Christine paints a kick-butt fruit basket thingy.) (Spent a lot of time with them, did I not?)
So well anyhoo, back to the story... I chose to paint a cherub and, at my Dad's request, a fruit thingamajig. With the mood I was in, I wanted to paint the cherub black and call it "Ceramic Me" but decided against it because, well, Daddy Dearest gets pissed off when I go all dark and gloomy.
Picasso, I am not, I was glad though that my sister decided to paint the other ceramic thingy. Made me feel better that I know colors better than she does.
Oh well. Life this, Life that. Complain here, complain there.
C'est La Vie. Adieu, mes Bébés.
Thoughts are jumbled today.
Couldn't think straight.
Sat across two kids who were probably 8 or 10 years old. (Their names were Camille and Christine.) (They're cousins.) (Camille paints a kick-butt castle, Christine paints a kick-butt fruit basket thingy.) (Spent a lot of time with them, did I not?)
So well anyhoo, back to the story... I chose to paint a cherub and, at my Dad's request, a fruit thingamajig. With the mood I was in, I wanted to paint the cherub black and call it "Ceramic Me" but decided against it because, well, Daddy Dearest gets pissed off when I go all dark and gloomy.
Picasso, I am not, I was glad though that my sister decided to paint the other ceramic thingy. Made me feel better that I know colors better than she does.
Oh well. Life this, Life that. Complain here, complain there.
C'est La Vie. Adieu, mes Bébés.
PS
Totally cryptic, am I not?Thoughts are jumbled today.
Couldn't think straight.
DramaQueen files this under cherubs, chuck palahniuk, complaints department, painting, pulling princes, rant, tyne o'connel
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A Poem
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.





