It’s a Process

So! There are two things that I have learned about myself this week.

The first thing:

Changing your own oil is not that hard. It’s a car, not a nervous system.


Here is photographic evidence of me as I lay under my car, watching the last few bits of oil drip from the drain plug.

Yeah, so maybe I needed a little bit of help with the oil fill cap, and the drain plug… and the filter… I still knew where they were! With the magic of YouTube, Google, and WikiHow, this shit was easy to figure out. Yes, it does void the warranty. But, like I said: It’s a car, not a nervous system. If something breaks and you have access to a garage, you can fix it. If you don’t have access to a garage, that just makes it a bit more inconvenient.

My parents taught me from a very young age that a wide range of skills is one of the most valuable things in this world. They would say that I don’t have to master everything I come across, but as long as I can get through it, even if it does require a bit of work, my life would be easier in the long run. I used to be scared of messing something up. I mean, if it was simply understood that you pay someone else to change your oil, isn’t that because it’s really difficult and potentially dangerous? Turns out, it’s just a bit of work. Surprisingly, only a little messy, too.

The second thing!:

I don’t suck at painting.

While cleaning my room last night, I sat down to a sketch that I did of my vase and a book sitting on my bookshelf. I thought softly, “This sketch has been sitting here for weeks now. Maybe it’s high time I stop procrastinating and paint a picture.” Mind you, this was 11:30 at night.

So, without a care in the world for how to actually do it, I pried open the can of linseed oil, pulled out my oil colors, and got to work. An hour and a half later, I was left with one of those paintings.

You know those paintings.

The kind that sits in a museum seemingly to irk you. The one hanging on the wall, watching you, smirking while you fume from the other side of the protected glass, laughing to itself while you wonder, “Who the fuck painted this? This is art? My kid could have painted this, drunk.” Yep. Those paintings.


Photographic evidence.

It was supposed to look like this:


More photographic evidence.


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