PAINTING BLOWS. Also, it's 2012.

Did you know that this will be How To Hate Everything's 120th post?!

HUZZAH! SOUND THE TRUMPETS, OH YE FERAL WOMBATS!

Do you know what I hate?

Painting walls.

Like, house walls. Or, more accurately, the walls of my FESTERING POTHOLE.

Let me start out by saying that I'm not one for entertaining. I didn't start painting the walls of my FESTERING POTHOLE because I wanted to have a pothole-warming party or anything like that.

That sounds funny. Pothole-warming party. It sounds like pot-holder. Or pot-warmer. Like a candle-warmer, but for a pot. A hot plate. Those are called hot plates. They warm pots. Also, stoves warm pots. Things you should be aware of.

No, I wanted to paint the walls of my FESTERING POTHOLE because in my pea-sized brain, I thought it would preoccupy my sociopathic mind. I also thought and continue to think that my sun room needs an accent wall.

So I decide to go out and buy a gallon of paint.

I decide that I want to paint this accent wall gold, because I'm a luxurious person. This paint looks pretty gold. The swatch looks gold. It would appear as though this paint would turn out to be an OPULENT and condescending hue of gold.

And this is what I get:

Now, if you're still a little confused, this is most definitely not an OPULENT and condescending gold. THIS IS ORANGE.

ORANGE.

I DIDN'T ASK FOR ORANGE.

ORANGE IS NOT OPULENT OR condescending.

ORANGE DOESN'T SAY, "I'M FINANCIALLY WELL-OFF AND THEREFORE BETTER THAN YOU".

WHICH IS WHAT I WANTED MY ACCENT WALL TO SAY.

BUT IT DOESN'T SAY THAT.

IT SAYS, "I'M ORANGE AND I CLASH".

I hate this wall.

Painting an accent wall is most likely the closest I'll ever get to playing Russian Roulette. But not Russian Roulette in the glamorous sense, where you're standing in a warehouse full of stolen Renoir paintings and a Slavic Bond girl is pointing a gun at you and whispering.

EDGY.

No, it's like REAL Russian Roulette. In a creepy little hut with old dudes.

Like these old dudes. These ones are HARDCORE.

When I went in to buy my paint, I didn't realize how big of a commitment paint really is. For starters, someone has to mix it for you.

This is obviously a huge buzz-kill for me because I'm a sociopath.

So I have to go through the pain of interacting with a human. WHICH SUCKS.

Also, all paint swatches look the SAME. I think there's some biological abnormality that makes every color look the SAME after you've been staring at little colored papers for thirty minutes straight. So at some point, I'm not sure if the paint I'm getting is going to be an OPULENT and condescending gold, or tie-dye jazz paint.

I don't think tie-dye jazz paint actually exists, but I just thought of it. Tie-Dye Jazz Paint. It's catchy.

IT'S ALSO A COLOR THAT WOULD MOST LIKELY LOOK WAY BETTER THAN ORANGE DOES ON MY ACCENT WALL.

Back to my Russian Roulette comparison. After spending over thirty minutes staring at little colored papers, I pick the gold that looks to be the most OPULENT and condescending gold of them ALL!

And then I go up to the counter and I get it mixed.

But in that moment of getting my paint mixed, I realize how big of a commitment I'm making. I think this gold is the gold that best expresses my OPULENT and condescending personality. I'm rejecting all other golds in favor of this gold, this tiny fragment of OPULENT and condescending gold that will make my pothole appear more OPULENT and condescending.

This gold and I have entered a commitment, like a common-law marriage but scarier because this OPULENT and condescending gold could quite possibly outlive me. If I die on my dining room floor right next to the Iron Maiden by choking on TGI Friday's Spinach and Artichoke Cheese Dip, the coroners will be bombarded with this OPULENT and condescending hue of gold while stuffing my lifeless corpse and any Pokemon cards that I may have lying around into a body bag.

And they will judge me. They will judge my OPULENT and condescending paint choice. They will decide whether or not the hue of gold I picked is, in fact, OPULENT and condescending, or just OPULENT, or just condescending, or NEITHER.

But I bury this fear deep down in my psyche, and I buy the OPULENT and condescending gold.

Then when I get back to my pothole, I realize something awful.

I HAVE TO PAINT MY OWN ACCENT WALL.

Ugh. I hate moving my limbs, so this is going to BLOW.

And it honestly did. My tricep is sore and now my left tricep is going to be more defined than my right tricep, so I'll be an asymmetrical FREAK with fucked-up triceps.

FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS ARE REAL PROBLEMS, EVERYONE.

So after an hour of brutal blue-collar work, my accent wall is painted. It looks sort of strange and slightly orange, but I'm thinking, "Hey, paint dries a different color". But this discrepancy makes me nervous, so I literally sit in my living room and watch the paint dry.

Yep. I watched paint dry.

And it was serious shit. My neck is still a little sore from staring at my accent wall for approximately one hour and twenty-seven minutes. But who's counting?

Me. I'm counting.

And guess what?

MY FUCKING OPULENT AND condescending gold PAINT TURNED INTO HEINOUS JACK-O-LANTERN CONSTRUCTION CONE ORANGE.

So now my neck is sore, my left tricep is huge and my shirt sleeves barely fit around it, and my accent wall is GARISH AND ORANGE.

Unhappy New Year, beached whales.

Luce