Harmonious interiors

I'm confused.

And busy as hell.

How busy would hell be, if hell did exist?

Would the Devil say he was a busy as hell, if the Devil did exist? (And I'm not referring to that devil who occasionally reads this blog.)

He’d say, "Stop bothering me, I'm busy as hell!" And then he would snicker and stroke his goatee. And smirk. And smirk some more and stroke his goatee some more.

I always picture the Devil as smirking. Like someone who knows something funny but refuses to share it. I can imagine him thinking, “It is “Paint “your own Pottery Studio””, and not “Paint “your own Pottery” Studio”” and gloating in the smug superiority of his knowledge.

Goatees are good for that. For stroking and for framing a smirk. Anyone with a goatee looks sinister. I have repeatedly mentioned this fact to a colleague who has a goatee. He retorted that my penchant for dressing in black is far more sinister.

I smirked at him.

I may have mentioned this before. But I have a very, very annoying smirk. Actually a smirk that women find very, very annoying.

I practice it in the mirror.

I think it is rather devilish.

I briefly practiced an innocent expression. I made me look like a mildly retarded sack of flour, and so I do not use it in public anymore. (Most sacks of flour are actually quite intelligent, but sadly mistaken in believing that it is “Paint “your own Pottery” Studio””)

I hate decorating. I really, really do.

(The segue here? Painting to decorating.)

(Or maybe Deus ex machina. A rampaging horde of mildly inebriated toasters took over the blog and forced me at crumb point to start talking (complaining?) about decorating.)

But getting it half right is some kind of a genetic imperative. And so I stress over it and obsess about it. I try to build a unified theme, with colors that flow together and build a sense of harmony.

And halfway through I say, “Fuck it all” and take a nap.

So this leaves me with an apartment that looks half decorated, just as it would if the person in charge of decorating it had said “Fuck it all” halfway through and had taken a nap. The wall above my couch has the hooks for a painting, but I’m too lazy to hang it up. (Only a poor reproduction I’m afraid. My wallet went into terminal withdrawal when it heard the price for an original, or even for a lithograph.)

Yes, I’m talking about decorating the apartment. That admission makes me feel vaguely emasculated. Now I have to grunt and scratch myself in an inappropriate place to reassert my masculinity.

Grunt.

Scratch.

No! That is not a catalog from Pottery Barn in the back seat of my car.

And please for fucks sake, it is “you” and not “u”. “Z” is not a fucking acceptable alternative for the letter “S” in plurals (It saddens me when people I am fond of commit these transgressions). And fucking capitalize. The shift key is but a finger away.

And for the fucking love of all that is good and pure do not fucking ask me what I am into. I am into nothing. Nothing is fucking into me. Ask me the field I fucking work in and I will give you a fucking detailed answer. Ask me what I am into and I will try to do unnatural things to you with my umbrella. And I assure you that you will not enjoy it.

Yeah, so, decorating and shit. Fuck it all.

(I am the King of Coherence and Structure. Crown me now and take me to my harem.)

EDIT: "r" does not fucking equate to "our" or "are". You can use "r" if you are pretending to be a pirate, but never ever in any other context.