This painting has been waiting to be sold since 2009, but finally, he is en route to his new home on some wall in Spokane, and the person who purchased it called me a precious artist so now I love her.
Forever grateful that there are people out there who like my art. And if you’re one of them, go buy something* because I need money for vacation haha!
*Just no custom paintings right now, sadly. I’m taking a short hiatus because I haven’t had enough time lately and it’s slowly killing me. I need to paint something!
Anyway, Godspeed little painting! Enjoy your new home!
The bus was late that day. Something about major roadways being cordoned off due to a parade for amputees. There would later be a riot, instigated by the albinos who were tired of being the least celebrated minority in the city of Fuglyfoot. But that’s a story that cannot be easily told without the use of obscenities and slurs that would make Satan himself shrink back into the shadows.
But the issue of the bus tardiness, this was no good for Maureen Hucklecrack, who had to be at court in fifteen minutes, else her philandering ex-husband would turn over evidence that would prove she moonlighted as a sort of Heidi Fleiss with midget clientele. And who knows what Maureen would have to resort to without that coitus-derived income. Probably would have to sell her Dolly Parton TV tray collection and stop getting Botex in the back of the corner fish market.
On the next wire, George Stockingcock’s anxiety level rose as he glanced at his watch and realized that he was already twenty-two minutes late for his prostrate exam. This made him feel a nervous diarrhea-burn in his lower stomach for a split second, until he created a Plan B, in which the mulatto phlebotomist he was seeing on the sly could maybe pull on her latex dominatrix gloves (to camouflage her liver spots) and conduct her own posterior prod-fest.
Clutching rigidly on an upper wire, Amy Slityourthroat was livid. The night before, she had caught her boyfriend of THREE MONTHS listening to the Used with some other girl. Some other girl who didn’t even paint her nails black and had the audacity to wear clothes from Hollister. Hollister, for Christ’s sake! She should go date a surfer and stay the hell away from my stuffed-in-dirty-skinny-jeans boyfriend, Amy thought erratically. And now the bus she takes every Wednesday to her anger management class was LATE. But she was too busy drawing a blueprint for murder to notice.
And then there was Lester Copafeel. Lester had been perched on the same wire for fifteen months, ever since his mother abandoned him for being mute. No one was sure if he was waiting for a bus, or for anything at all, really.No tags for this post.