explicit content ➵ royce

Ch. XXIX - The Artiste.

[ Rayan. ]

“Look, tell yo’ husband that I’m not a fucking Picasso,” I snapped over my phone as I’m displacing a box of bottle of acrylic paint. “If he ain’t damn satisfied about the damn painting isn’t what the hell he requested, I’ll be happy to lend him the money back. At this time, my service is about to be unavailable so have a great afternoon.”

Before the woman complain again, I hung up. Of course, I’m not mad at the fact that some people devalorize parts of my artistic ability; it’s just that when others fail to realize everything or everyone shouldn’t be perfect irritates me. Everyone should know that no one is perfect. Everyone is born to be exceptional, right?

Most of you know everything is totally different than summer of 2014; exactly four years ago. So I’m sorry that there’s a difference in my life as well. The change is better, but that don’t mean I’m despising the past. I now reside in Los Angeles, in a not so fancy home and it’s really a great place for work. A job that I don’t have to worry about being late or fired… because I’m actually an artist. In art, I wouldn’t consider myself a full-blown whiz. I’m just an aspiring artist that’s already engaged to his dream.

Over the little years, my creativity—as you can insinuate of being transcendental—have been rejected by couple art schools that I applied to, after I graduated and earned my bachelors diploma at UCLA. Everything I think about that university, I get pissed on why I didn’t consider art instead of fashion designing of being my focused major. By now, I would’ve been some art teacher at a grade school—mainly high school. There’s nothing wrong about fashion designing. It’s obvious that I love to draw and I’m overly obsessed with every piece of clothing in my closet but, I figured fashion designing won’t fit for my profession. And hey, speaking of college majors and all, I remember before I applied and got accepted to that university, I wanted photography to be my future major. Now, I’m fine on snapping pictures (especially selfies) on a iPhone.

My artistic works is now attractions to others. It all started approximately two years ago, I worked at a better job that had a helpful pay, eighteen dollars an hour. I earned enough to purchase things I need like this house; so I somehow successfully got it after many people had interest and toured inside. In the process of moving in on a stressing and sizzling day, my landlord spotted a couple of my paintings. He accoladed on how splendid the canvas looked and mentioned why I should become a professional artist. And later on, he took me by surprise when he asked could he buy my paintings—when selling them never crossed my mind. His deal was handing me two grand plus, reducing a Benjamin from my monthly rent.

Being a person that loves money and dislike paying too much on bills, I accepted the generous offer. Now since the man adores my artistic talent, he spread the word that make me have customers. Customers that I have no choice to but to assume they’re thousand to millionaires. I even made schedules.

Even though this is my own business just for me, but there’s times that I have to grind a little bit harder than I should. Especially when I’m not working anywhere else because I’m entirely depending on my natural talent. This is my occupation.

Right now, I have everything set up in my kitchen. Yeah, I have a room upstairs that I handle most of my business. But recently, I decided to do work in the kitchen because one, the window length sends the most sunlight and two, I have easy access to any snack I want to eat.

After opening this plastic container full of paint brushes, I ripped the plastic wrap from Jay’s album I just bought and opened the glass case, out of curiosity. I grabbed my phone, launched on the music app, and putting the songs on his album on shuffle—starting with this song that Tinashe is featuring.