The Nazi of Paint

With the upcoming pomp and circumstances beyond my control, I hurdle myself forth a-bounding down the tunnel of culmination to reach the vast stretches of infinite potential, a carousel of anabases rotating by the labor and undertakings of my entire life thus far.  Soon I will walk backwards through the pillars of which I arrived, perhaps wearing a stupid-looking hat and holding a ten dollar rolled up slice of achievement.

Such an ostentatious fanfare palpably comes at a cost, and the clerk refused to attach the tag to it.  It says 15% off, but off of what?

Before I reach the end of this game, the final showdown, the last test of hurrah, the irrefutable final boss fight must be won.  The plot twists had long passed; there is no sudden epic consternation, no heroic team-switching.  The last mission to ensure my graduation will be as clear and concise as a cliché.

That does not make it easy.  On the contrary, this absolute challenge will test my patients, my dedication, and confront my temper.  I have had to prepare myself for cheap shots and twists.  Who or what is this final boss?

My painting professor.  No.  I will not call her a professor, or a teacher, for she is not either of those.  The fight is strictly man versus Monster, and I have but a toothpick to duel with.  Think Shadows of the Colossus, except instead of a large, furry and usually docile beast, imagine being up against a foe who cackles and wheezes at your very attempts to conquer it.  I remember when I was young, in elementary school, for hating a girl named Amber because she flirted with me and teased me constantly.  I remember hating a guy for dating a girl I had a huge crush on in high school.  I have shown repugnance towards many a thing, but never has anything grown to this level of disrespect.  Filling up her mailbox with fecal matter seems like a low-key thing to do.

She is unforgiving and saturated with evil.  She wickedly flexes her fingers jagged at her students and gloats proudly about herself.  Hitler would look at her and just say no.

Just when I thought I was reaching the end of my sortie, the malevolent witch of painting pulled out another cheap attack to try to keep me from my victory.  A new art assignment was revealed, one week before finals.  With three classes with her, I am already booked solid and overwhelmed by her expectations.  Her way of grading is none too fair either, and it seems she pulls most the letters out of her big evil ass.

I have had crippled kids tell me they feel bad for me for taking three classes with her.

I am going to get through this.  I am going to conquer her and overcome her ignorance, her arrogance, and her fucking lack of humanity.  If she doesn’t like my paintings, she can slap a few wads of paint on a canvas and sell it for a couple grand, and bolster her pathetic self-image.  If anyone in this world buys that crap, you are only feeding the fires of wickedness.  If I have learned anything this year, it’s that expression comes at a price, and even the most untalented hack can ruin ones spirit systematically.

See you on the other side.



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