It Might Be The Paint Fumes

Irony = writing a post on the eco evils of latex paint while wielding a brush full of said paint with the other hand.

Today Matthew decided it was the day to paint. I had mumbled some promise to him about “trim” and “steady hand” and couldn’t resist helping cover up that hideous orangey color with a color I find hard to describe. In a certain light it looks purplish. In another it looks more taupe. I have no idea what color it is, but it’s on three walls and is destined for several more. It looks modern and sleek, which is a good thing if that’s what you’re going for. And it only took four months to get it done.

Something something paint fumes headache something [redacted]. Also [further redacted] jumbled mess of everything that had to be moved to make three walls bare.

While painting, I alternated epiphanies with tremendous inner pain. Life works like that. The tears flowed while the paint dried. Cry me a river. I’m no closer now to making it to the surface, at least from here it doesn’t appear any different, but I’ve decided it would be a good idea to stop taking life so fucking seriously. Since I have had this talk with myself at least 7000 times before, I have a hard time believing I will get anywhere THIS time but you never know. It could be the paint fumes talking, but I may be on to something.

But here’s the thing: which parts do you hang on to and which can you let go of?