I watch two red lines set themselves on my knuckles as I ask Lui to type and we wait for our Sloppy Guiseppe to cook itself in Mothers crappy oven. It says it takes ten minutes on 200 degrees celsius; its been in for four and I can smell burning, though that might just be where I burnt myself.
Me and Lui are wondering, to what extent can an artiste go to before its just sad? This comes about as this morning, we went to Pret for breakfast, because we're snobby like that. I bring my observation book, simply because I need all seventy-one pages filled before the first of April, and theres a nice tree with blossom on it visible from the upstairs window boothe. After finishing my pain au chocolat and tea, I get out my obs, charcoal and gum and set out to draw the blossom when the girl with no metabolism looks up from her diet Coke and tells me that this art thing is taking over my life, and we hardly ever talk anymore; she makes us sound like we're married, which would be illeagal in so many ways, unless we migrated somewhere else, but even then I don't think they'd be all that big on same-sex marriages. Says the girl who writes songs on my window seat, for the sake of her poetic license and is totally only dating her boyfriend because he can play two chords (most probably A and E) and calls her by Tallulah, which only he and her parents can, and the rest of us are forbidden. Thats it, she's gone.
Just because I'm telling the truth, which only she's allowed to do. I do it in a rambly way that just kind of drifts with my train of thought, while she just does it in a down-right mean way. I'm totally not feeliong the love for Tallulah Alice Wright atm.
Its such a nice name for someone so spiteful.