Remember when we first met? Remember when I took that screwdriver and pried off your lid and we faced each other for the first time? Remember how I forgot to mix you because I’m dreadful at remembering important steps but you forgave me?
Our love was pure and innocent.
And like all pure and innocent love, it was new.
Sure, I shared some frustrations on the Internet, in a fit of pique.
But I believed our bond to be everlasting.
Nothing could sever our connection, our intricate bonds of affection.
Then came the second day of painting, when we realized the man at the hardware store was a liar and we would need to put on a second coat.
It was okay though, because at least we had a few extra helpers – five whole people!
And then the third day, re-taping and painting white over the dark green trim.
But that was okay because Skye was helping – two whole people!
And then the fourth day, having to go back over the trim.
But that was okay, because at least I had myself.
And I’m pretty awesome.
Which brings us to the fifth day, when it turned out the third and fourth days were unsuccessful and another coat of white was required on the trim.
And this, this was very unpleasant.
Because by this day there was no real benefit to having me.
But none of my imaginary friends would step it up and do their part.
Paint, I think you see where I’m going with this.
You’re perpetrating a terrible injustice upon mankind, making us long for richly colored rooms yet taking our sanity when we try to obtain them.
And for that, I’m going to find your weak spot.
And I’m going to crush you.
I only hope you take this letter as the very serious warning it is.
This post was inspired 40% by painting insanity
And 60% by Alex’s post about open letters,