Thursday, October 16, 2008

Opinion: I Hate Painting

God I hate painting so much it’s like the worst thing ever. I don’t hate building a little two-legged table for the dog, nor do I hate cooking meals for people or even cleaning up meals. I don’t hate drywall, nor floor refinishing, nor building a new bathroom from scratch. I don’t hate hanging pictures or wall hangings, nor doing designs on the computer and printing them out on the printer and then buying more ink for the printer. No, I don’t hate any of those things, and many more things I could name too. Like cleaning toilets and putting out ant traps, and cleaning the ants from the dog food bowl which, until I built a table for it, sat on the floor like an ant buffet. 

No, I don’t hate any of those things, but I fucking hate fucking painting.

I hate that little crust of paint that forms around the lids once you’ve opened a can and put the lid back on. Is it wet or dry, that little crust? Let me fucking tell you, it’s always wet!

I hate the sound of the rollers. Why do we put up with this shit? It’s like a squeegee stuck into a pig’s gut, and the pig squeals and the squeegee squeegees up his guts as he’s squealing and it sounds like fucking painting.

And how come the fucking radio never works right when you’re painting? You’re going to deny me Rico and Suave in the Morning on top of the pain of painting? Fuck you.

Tape’s supposed to make it better, but what the hell? The tape always pulls off part of the old paint job, even if the old paint job was like two days ago. That leaves splotches in the corners of the ceiling, and you know how you have to deal with that? Do you? More fucking painting. It fucks you one way, this paint thing, then it fucks you the other way too.

I went to buy the paint, which I don’t hate so much because when I go I get to buy beer too, it’s the rule. And they have at the hardware store this thing that you can give them your phone number and they will enter into the computer what paint you bought and what room it was for so that if you need the paint again, you don’t have to drag the wet lid in or have it matched or be a total fucking Martha Stewart and just remember. So that’s nice, except that when I needed another can, did they have our paint in ther? I had to call home and ask what color it was. Primavera. Prima fucking vera. So now, I hate the fucking hardware store part of painting too.

Oh, and I hate painting without tape, too. Even if you go slow, you see it. I am no good at painting, which is another thing I hate, and so I make mistakes and I hate following behind myself with a paper towel to wipe up my mistakes. You know why I hate that? Because I left the paper towels down in the fucking basement, that’s why, so that when I come back up with them, or even some toilet paper from the bathroom, it’s already dry and you will always know that I painted this room. Me. The guy who hates painting.

Okay, where was I? Oh yes. Hate.

I hate the way the roller splatters paint on my glasses. I paid five fucking hundred dollars for these glasses, and I didn’t pay it to paint them. Also, I hate the rollers themselves, they sound like a pig being squeegeed to death, as I’ve said, and also they just don’t work. Who fucking came up with this idea of putting paint onto a roller and then rolling it on. I get one or two back-and-forths, yops, and then it’s done and I have to add more paint. I’d do better just throwing the paint on the wall and rollering at random. Which I would if I even remotely enjoyed painting or trying to improve the painting process. I don’t. I hate both.

I hate how painting hurts my hands. And my wrists. It hurts. Perhaps it hurts because I don’t know how to paint, you say? Well tough shit because I’m going to bitch about it anyway.

Oh! Oh! I hate the way my fucking wife says I’m being a big fucking baby. I hate it when she says lighten up, it’s for our child’s bedroom, and that this means somehow I am supposed to not hate it so much. News flash: It could be for my dying mother, and I would hate it all the same. It could be for my dying mother, who only wanted a primavera room to die in and I’d be scraping my fingernails of primavera paint and getting drunk in the basement while she dies in her precious primavera room like the Queen herself. M’lady! your precious death room is ready! I hope you enjoy it, since I hated it so much. Happy death, Mom.

I really hate painting.

Okay, let’s see. Dying mom. Radio. Squeegeed pig intestine. Rollering my eyeglasses, which cost five fucking hundred dollars. Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh fuck me yes: The one coat promise. Bull. Shit. If you can do it all in one coat, that means only one thing: you love painting. Why don’t you and the paint can get a room, paint lover? Then you could put your hard-on in the paint can and stir up a new paint color called “Fuck you!”

And the brushes never get cleaned. Ever. They are always like totally stiff when you want to use them again. I mean, do guys who love to paint spend like twenty minutes washing brushes? Because I have, and it still ended up stiff as the hard-on you people who love painting get when you paint. I am a man who will keep a plastic bag and re-use it till Jesus himself reappears, but I throw away a paint brush like it’s toiler paper.

And the heat. It’s like every paint can comes with a fireplace. Ever seen a painter wearing a sweater? Nope, no such luck. Instead you’re standing there in a boiling hot room, with fumy paint on your balls, wearing latex gloves to keep the paint off your hands but not your balls or your glasses, which cost five hundred fucking dollars remember, and your rubbing a roller onto a wall. That’s not home improvement. That’s hell.

And after all that, all the whole fucking shtick you do, which every last drop of it I hate, every bit of it, except maybe the smell and the beer—after all that whole bullshit you do, you know what you have? A new color on a wall. Great. Happy Christmas. Enjoy it, you fuck.

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