Performing live with Monty Python, Neil Innes introduced his Protest Song by announcing, "Ladies and gentlemen, I've suffered for my music. Now it's your turn." Last week, when I was so upset with my reversal of fortunes, my man referenced that line, when he told me that now I can actually say I have suffered for my art. I'm not sure getting well and truly pissed off at a financial injustice counts as suffering, but I went with it.
Tonight, the real suffering began. I don't know why I keep doing this to myself, but over and over, I try to create while sprawled out on the floor. It hurt when I was twenty-five and cutting fabric for my costume designs on the floor, and I has never improved, the older and less flexible I have gotten. When all of my promised helpers vanished into the ether, I decided it would be a great idea to drag the plywood into the room with the television, so I would have no excuse not to be working on it all day long. It's right in front of me, so I can't blow it off. I moved furniture and put it on the floor, thinking it was the only place it fit. I managed to get half of the exterior white paint down it longwise, before I was crying in pain, and had to take a break. I think I need to try to prop it up on the two ottomans in here. I don't think I can take it getting back on the floor for the other side. And crouching over that bucket of vile-smelling paint, killing my brain cells--I'm not going to protest it. THAT counts as suffering tonight.
Unsurprisingly, less than thirty seconds after I sat on the couch, there was an exceptionally naughty kitten racing across the still tacky white paint, tracking it on my wood floor. She protested when I picked her up and made her leave the room.
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