Mundane painting tasks.

Wellllll it's been a while between blogs yet again... Life's been busy and blogging has been hard to come by as the laughter has taken a dry spell in my life. In the last month or so I've done a lot of things; finished uni for the year, finished my 2nd teaching prac, learnt that I can't sing, nor can I dance and yet I have signed myself up for singing in the Christmas choir and dancing in a Christmas play. Absurd has pretty much taken on a whole new level in my life.

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But even though I have had all these mis-adventures (I've literally missed adventures because of these mundane tasks... Just to name a few: sleeping adventures, eating adventures and television adventures) I want to talk to the people (you and that guy standing behind you) about my new task of giving my bedroom a tummy tuck, a facelift and breast implants (also known as new carpet, fresh paint job and silicon breast implants).

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You would think painting your room would be fun wouldn't you? In the movies they always depict people painting rooms to be fun loving people in a whimsical montage. They make gaffs at each other, laugh with full toothed pearly white smiles, paint each other and mispell things wrong in paint on the walls - all the while enjoying time spent together. The couple depicted may even finish with getting down to the task of some heavy love making, embracing each other in a passionate kiss and then having the camera pan away to show the wind blowing some curtains or a steam train entering a tunnel or some other euphemism dressed up in some inanimate objects. Anyway the point is none of this is possible for me when you're painting under the Nazi-esque regime of my parents - particularly that of the long passionate embraces and love making.

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I'm still the boisterous, handsome fella with impish charm that would generally be depicted in any one of these movie painting scenes, but there is a severe lack of montage-ing and a extreme lack of fun going on at the moment with this whole painting the room thing. If you combined Michaelangelo's skill (I'm talking the skill at painting he has left after being dead for 446 years) with a shorter Hitler sporting a less prominent mustache, you would have my mother. She brandishes a painting ego and some general painting terms and prefers not to dialogue with me but rather wraps these terms up in a large parcel, waits for me to attempt to open it and then BOOM!!!!! - there goes my face.

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I am constantly ducking "DON'T GET THAT BLUE PAINT ON THAT BLUE WALL!!!" bullets and "You screw up cutting along those skirting boards and I'll CUT YOU IN YOUR SLEEP FOOL !!!!!!!!!!!" grenades. Where's the comradery? The mess ups that get fixed up just before the next scene? I need black outs between painting just like in the movies where things just get done during these times. But I'm afraid if I attempt to turn the lights off whilst my parents are painting I'll turn them back on to find I've been eviscerated by a paintbrush - a steaming pile of my stomach entrails dangling from my ripped open torso with blood splattering on the floor in front of me and my mother screaming "DON'T BLEED ON MY WALLS!!"

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So when I do pass on (I always knew my time in the trenches of war would be short), I would like my funeral to be a happy time. If there is food afterwards eat it, if you don't eat at my funeral you don't leave... I've spent all my life eating, I never let anything go to waste and I would turn in my grave if people leave leftovers at my funeral. I want In Loving Memory by Alter Bridge played and a 22 gun salute, with the extra gun being of the nerf variety fired right into someone's forehead for comical effect. You can have my car.

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Well with this all said and done I guess I better learn how to paint and stop screwing around attempting to infuriate people splashing blues on red walls.......... Ahhhhhhhhhhh who am I kidding, that's just not me, bring on the raining bullets of abuse.

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But seriously.... the car is all yours when I die.