The day crept up on him; took him by surprise: twenty thousand...but none seemed more relevant than the one before, or, for that matter, any other that came before. It was a Friday but it felt the same as a Tuesday. He decided he was going to make a watercolor painting today, for no other reason than he felt like it. Maybe this would bring him closer to finally really understanding the feel of a Tuesday. Painting a watercolor didn’t seem like a Thursday type of thing, to him. His set up his easel & put on some Moody Blues. Zone d out and splashed some olive green on the fresh canvas. The paints dribbled to the floor. "Tuuuuessssdaaaaay." he mumbled as he slowly spread dabs of ocher. The man was genius. Eccentric, yes, but aren't all artists? A crowd gathered. "YOU!" he suddenly pointed at me. "What do you see here?" Amazingly, the spilled paint resembled The time I'd been kidnapped by a herd of hippopotamuses and took me back to Africa to make me their part time queen, part time chef and part time lover. This artist was incredible. I cannot believe the sheer detail with which the artist depicted this series of events! This is the kind of art that one would hear college professors dissecting for years to come! The Cerulean blue of the sky! the Alizarin crimson of the blood! The raw umber of the pus! Art critics would stand before it and weep with the relief that asomeone actually underst ated the beauty of this magnificent oil-on-canvas hellscape, so they could rush in and pretentiously correct them posthaste. One such plebeian stepped up to the plate. "Who here claims to define art?! THIS IS ART!" he screamed, ripping open his shirt and smearing mud on his chest. Unable to disagree, everybody just went home and ate dinner.

 

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