Thursday, May 27, 2004

I was a face painter during our school's annual WestFest event. I volunteered for the morning and afternoon shifts. That is, I took part in the morning shift before leaving to go window shopping three cities away with Bible Cop (or should I now say: Future-constantly-knocked-up-pastor's-wife-who-likes-to-trudge-through-the-garden-with-mud-caked-feet-and-children-hanging-off-her-fat-ankles (FCKUPWWLTTTTGWMCFACHOHFA)?).

I remember it being a lot more fun last year. The kids were cuter and chose whatever was drawn on the bristol board above my head. But now, they want obscure things such as something called a "maple leaf" or some indie rock band, the "Calgary Flames" (which looked more falafel than firey when drawn by yours truly.) Some really tried to push the envelope: "I want ... a bat!"

Hey kid, do I look like I'm David Copperfield (the magician, not the character from the eponymous Dickensian novel)?!

Other kids were more accomadating: "I want D12 on this side, and G-UNIT on the other." Lil' gangstas, how quickly they grow up in the suburbs *tear*

I wanted to paint Shotgun Toter's face like she was part of the KISS Army. Black star over her right eye, whiskers and bright red lips (it's a combination of Gene Simmons and that drummer, who, I was informed, nobody ever noticed). But I couldn't because she had a track competition in St. Catharines. So she told me to paint her sister's face like that, whether or not the child wanted a rainbow or glitter heart.

Sadly, I didn't get to see her sister because, well, I went window shopping three cities away.

On the way back during rush hour, we saw a bus load of elementary school kids. Bible Cop or FCKUPWWLTTTTGWMCFACHOHA suggested that we make faces at them. We waved, they waved. We made faces, they spat. They waved, two guys in the car beside us gave them the finger.

Ah, good times.


My painting's going to be in the art exhibition held at City Hall. I'm actually looking forward to it.


Birthday is in nine days. I say this every year, likening it to tradition: "Hook me up to an iron lung, I'm getting old."

Then again, it's also the legal age of consent for all sorts of neat junk. That and taxes (in addition to unwanted children, children you never knew existed, children on welfare, you on welfare, and a baby's mama who never wore a skirt she didn't hike up.)

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