I finally managed to finish painting my room and move all of my furniture back to some semblance of a reasonable layout. It’s quite a stunning paint job, if I may blow my own proverbial horn a bit, involving vertical stripes (to draw the eyes up) of varying (semi-random) widths (to generate visual interest and balance) in an alternating color scheme of medium gray (studio gray) and fluorescent green (green apple) separated by a nice warm white (loft living). I’m a sucker for paint names. Almost the same way most people are suckers for Crayola color names. Macaroni and cheese was always disappointingly waxy (“This isn’t food at all!”).

Finally, at 4:30am, I decided it was time to go to bed. This was a mistake, however. What I hadn’t anticipated were the splotches of dark blue that the previous resident of the room (damn you Wesley!) had careless splashed on the ceiling when he painted it last. Since I had carefully taped off the ceiling, the blue spatters remained. Taunting, haunting me. “What if people think they’re my fault?”

No.

So at approximately 4:35am, I (in my pajamas) grabbed a paint brush and stood on my bed, carefully holding a paper towel underneath the brush to prevent any drips onto my sheets. I think what really pushed me over the edge was the fact that I had just enough paint left in one of my paint trays to fix the error. I didn’t even have to open up the paint can again.

Dip dip. Dab dab. Dab. Squint… Brush brush. Dabble. Wash wash wash wash.

There, I can sleep now.