In my prime

Well, that went well.

Now that the apartment’s been rehabilitated, I’m trying to paint the prison bathroom.

And so far, I’m covered in primer. I look like a bad Jackson Pollock – if Pollock opted for all white and lost his inspiration halfway through. I’ve got primer on my toes, my ears, my elbows. I’m not one to admit there’s something I can’t do well, but let’s just say if you decided to squat on, I’m not buying the url back from you anytime soon.

I think primer is like training wheels for paint. You can mess up because it’s white. And you know you’re going to paint over it anyway so no goof is really that big a deal.

When I was learning to ride a bike, my parents took off the training wheels, and I hit a pole. Head first. I’ve got the Polavision film to prove it. Your parents show your significant other pictures of your first bath. My parents whip out “Cycling Jacki.”

Anyway, assuming this afternoon I take off the training wheels and open the can of Laura Ashley yellow, you’ll know how to find me.

I’ll be the stick of butter wrapped around the telephone pole.

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