Friday, June 1, 2012

The Case of the Two Gay Roommates Part II: The one with the painting


After my two week break from Savannah, I caught a ride back to Savannah with my friend Zach. I realized that I really did not like Carson earlier in the summer, especially after he tried to kick his homeless mother out on the streets, got into a fight with his younger brother over who got to log out of something on the computer, and continually went behind me and changed anything I did to the apartment to better suit him and his taste.

I had spent all summer trying to avoid depression. There is something about the summer that causes me to always wind up depressed. I had devoted my time and energy into painting and was very proud of my work. I hung some of them in the living room of the apartment, along with a couple of movie posters that I did not have room for in my bedroom. I had figured that it would be no big deal, seeing as how Carson too had personal stuff hung up in the common areas, but apparently, it was.

When I got back to Savannah, I went in and noticed that my paintings were missing from the common room and that one of my posters had been taken down. When I asked him about it, he told me, “It fell down and I could not get it to stay back up.” That was fine with me, and I did not even question it, especially with my paintings. How they were secured to the wall, I could believe that they had fallen, but it did not make too much sense how a thumbtack would miraculously pop out of sheetrock. But whatever, it was all right; I could just put them back up.

When I tried to put the poster, back up I discovered the true reason that they had been “fallen down.” As I was putting the last thumbtack back into the poster, Carson walked into the living room. “What are you doing,” he said.
I responded lightheartedly with, “What does it look like; I am putting it back up.”
“I don’t really like it there,” he said.
“Oh well, I live here too and I do. You have stuff in the living room too. I don’t like the traffic cones and the bricks and that ugly ass thing that you call art. Get over it.” I said as I pushed the last thumbtack in.

I probably should not have insulted his art work, since I myself am not world renowned artist. But the thing was a plastic painting knife attached to a canvas board with some light electric blue paint smeared around, and a piece of duct tape affixed to the pop with a whole cut threw it so that it could hang from one of those 3M hooks. It was far from a masterpiece. But none the less it was kind of cool and it helped decorate our otherwise drab living room. I later noticed that every time I went home for the weekend, or was in class for a while, my art kept miraculously falling and landing on the shelf under the television.

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