The trials of being me
It sucks when people know you are talented. All of the sudden there are expectations to perform for their amusement. It's as though God-given gifts represent obligations to enrich the rest of humanity.
Fuck that shit.
Needless to say, as someone blessed with good looks, intelligence and multitudinous endowments, I often find myself pressured by others into gracing them with impromptu performances. God knows, karaoke cannot be mentioned within my social circle without eliciting fond retellings of my striptease to Prince's When Doves Cry. Due to my slightly above average vocabulary, I am regularly pressed by coworkers into defining words or helping them to formulate the rare coherent thought. And don't even get me started on the number of times I have been asked to suck my own dick at parties.
As much as I like to be the center of attention, it irritates me immensely to be pressured into doing things. I am petulant and contrary by nature, consequently my instinct when faced with obligation is to shirk it. I live to disappoint.
"You can draw," M. said, nudging me toward the picnic table.
In celebration of the much-delayed release of our latest software client, employees were invited to spend three hours of the workday on the company lawn eating lukewarm hot dogs accompanied by hits from rock-and-roll icons Huey Lewis and Clay Aiken. M.'s urgings were exactly the sort of situation that normally irritates me. As an artist and a perfectionist, I am highly resistant to taking requests from others. Nevertheless, I couldn't sit by and allow solely the banal artwork of my coworkers to fill the wall designated for proposed company t-shirts. So, above the usual company propaganda I drew a screaming bald man on a field of green binary digits with veins popping from his neck and a bar code tattooed to his forehead.
But just to spite everyone, I didn't do a very good job.
Fuck that shit.
Needless to say, as someone blessed with good looks, intelligence and multitudinous endowments, I often find myself pressured by others into gracing them with impromptu performances. God knows, karaoke cannot be mentioned within my social circle without eliciting fond retellings of my striptease to Prince's When Doves Cry. Due to my slightly above average vocabulary, I am regularly pressed by coworkers into defining words or helping them to formulate the rare coherent thought. And don't even get me started on the number of times I have been asked to suck my own dick at parties.
As much as I like to be the center of attention, it irritates me immensely to be pressured into doing things. I am petulant and contrary by nature, consequently my instinct when faced with obligation is to shirk it. I live to disappoint.
"You can draw," M. said, nudging me toward the picnic table.
In celebration of the much-delayed release of our latest software client, employees were invited to spend three hours of the workday on the company lawn eating lukewarm hot dogs accompanied by hits from rock-and-roll icons Huey Lewis and Clay Aiken. M.'s urgings were exactly the sort of situation that normally irritates me. As an artist and a perfectionist, I am highly resistant to taking requests from others. Nevertheless, I couldn't sit by and allow solely the banal artwork of my coworkers to fill the wall designated for proposed company t-shirts. So, above the usual company propaganda I drew a screaming bald man on a field of green binary digits with veins popping from his neck and a bar code tattooed to his forehead.
But just to spite everyone, I didn't do a very good job.