Weird and Weirder

CH7. Josh's POV - Paint It Black

Chapter 7 – Josh's POV

Paint it Black

To the best of my capacities, I try to be a happy person, but a lot of things do piss me off in life. Like this moment right now, this moment is pissing me off.

There's a huge building being built in town and a group of artist have been hired to deal with the art section, since any construction need to spend a certain percentage of their budget on art. My father has all but forced me to meet up with them because they're still hiring a couple more artists.

Maybe if I was a useless kid right out of college with an art degree I would be running after that opportunity, but right now I should actually be meeting Todd to work on the aesthetic of our app. I don't know how I'll ever be able to make my father understand this, the fact that I don't need more work. I know this feel more respectable to him, but I never cared about respectable. It's like he's never met me.

I guess it's the nature of my father. He always needs me to have a plan. He always needs me to know exactly how things are going to work out. My father didn't teach me how to wield. He taught me how to make the plans to make the sculpture, but not the way to do the sculpture. That's what my dad is. A planner.

From all the conversations I got from people around, my mom was the doer.

Dad's the planner, and mom's the doer.

That sounds kinda kinky.

Anyway, I'm neither. Well, I guess I'm kind of both too. I'm like Bob Ross' happy mistakes. I have no idea what I'm doing or when I'm doing it, but suddenly it'll happen and it'll work.

I can kind of see how that kind of instability could really irk my dad.

So here I am, sitting in front of three pompous baby boomers with no idea what I'm doing here.

I keep wanting to stand up on their desks and just start reciting Nathan's speech in Misfits about our generation fucking up bigger and badder than the others.

I'm a screw-up and I plan to be a screw-up until my late twenties, maybe even my early hirties. And I will shag my own mother before I let her or anyone else take that away from me!

"What's your latest work of art?" one of them asks me. There's three of them, each one more sad looking than the other. It's a mix between old hippies and irrelevant aunt at a family dinner.

"It was a painting for a Victoria Secret commercial," I answer proudly, thinking about mine and Blake's latest act of vandalism.

"Oh really? Anything we might have seen?" she presses.

I grin, trying to look creepy. "Depends if you drive in the bad part of town,"

"Okay..." ¸

Siked! It totally worked.

"Do you have a favourite art medium?" another one of them ask me, obviously trying to change the mood.

I can't let that pass. I have so many options but opt for these, "The blood of ass-virgins. Puppy heads. Glue sticks."

They all look appalled. "Excuse me?"

I ignore their shocked expressions. "I'm thinking about experimenting with mucus, any mucus really. I can just put dye in it."

"I'm not sure if you're trying to be funny or edgy?" one of them says.