The Yellow Jar of Paint

All I bought today was a yellow jar of paint. This is all I bought at the art store. I made other purchases today, but the yellow jar of paint is the only item I bought today of significance.
Yellow is the color of insanity.
Of madness.

It took me a while to go through the red and green jars. Took me a couple of weeks. Many things in my studio were starting to look very Christmas-y.

I only bought the one jar, because, well, that's all I needed.

I haven't had a good jar of yellow for a while. Normally, I have red, yellow, blue, white, black, and maybe one other. I keep that rotation of colors going. Paint is getting expensive. It's all a farce. But today, I only needed the one color.

This piece is already out of control.

Hard to think with the band next door, a constant theme. They make jokes, too. I don't like their music, and I don't laugh at their jokes. They, on the other hand, think they are good musicians, and they think they are funny.

Damn them.

Had to pick up yet another piece of gum off of the stairs. A young drummer seems to be the culprit. He seems to enjoy putting gum on the stairs. Maybe it is a side-effect of not being a good drummer. He has to do something else to complete the circle of annoyance. It starts with his inadequate drumming, and finishes with gum on the stairs. What a bastard.

Anyway, the band has succeeded in distracting me from my writing once again. Thanks, guys.
The singer's voice is really thin. He's white. Seems like he decided god had called on him to be a singer one or two years ago.
He must not have done very well in high school English. His lyrics are lame.

Anyway, I'm suffering.

All I want to talk about is the jar of yellow paint. Where was I? Damn, hard to think this through. Can I start over? Damn.

The jar of paint is on my table, my art table, where I do all my painting.

'The Yellow Wallpaper'. Remember that story? I can't remember who wrote it. Some woman. I'll have to look it up. Not a bad story, about a woman who was confined by a man, and when she was sick, all she had to look at was the pattern of the yellow wallpaper. Kind of like a psychological Poe story in nature. Not one of my favorite stories, but I remembered it for a long time. Was it written well? Was it written to anyone who would care? Did it bore or exasperate the reader? Was the story about the author?

So many issues, hard to identify with the author.

So many issues. I don't want my stories to be crazy. The stories that I read by supposedly good authors, worthy of being in an English book. What do I know? I'm just goofing now.

Hard to write with souls next door to me with only a foot thick wall separating us.

All I know is I've done everything wrong. Lucky I'm still alive. I'm glad I'm alive.

Who cares about what I do? Not me. I mean, really? I don't know what I mean.

I'm just writing off the top of my head, but trying to get somewhere. To where, I don't know.

Good answer. No, it isn't.

Damn.

Could it be that I am completely insane? I've been considering the issue.

There's lots of things I want to write about this yellow jar of paint. I don't think I can do it tonight. I think I'll have to look at this piece some other time, and collect my thoughts about it. I can usually write in the coffee shop, unless there is something distracting me there, too. That has happened in the last couple of days. People get on their cell phones, and turn it into a performance for the whole cafe. How tedious.