I only lasted a week looking at that shit. I said to myself, well who can blame the woman. I would have killed myself too if I had to look at that shit day in and day out. At first I was going to wait, I said, well, it might be ugly, but you just got here and you don't have a job so you really shouldn't go spending money on sheets and pillowcases until you have a job and have some money coming in. Then I said, OK, if I have to look at that shit for one more day I am going to climb onto the roof of this building and jump off. So I went down to Laytner's Linens to rectify the situation.
The painting had to go as soon as humanly possible. I couldn't look at it anymore without wanting to stab myself in the eye. I gave it away, to that dude from craigslist who has been so helpful, the one who helped me move my shit in. I was foaming at the mouth to get it out, and the minute I did I was overcome with a hugely depressing and horrible feeling of guilt. I have a feeling that she loved that painting and it meant a lot to her for some reason (because she was out of her mind and bat-shit crazy) and I'm sure she would have been extremely hurt and depressed to know that I was so eager to get it out of my house. Because it was fucking hideous.
But I got over it rather quickly, and was grateful for the plain white wall underneath. It's going to be forever before the place looks the way I want it to. It needs to be painted, I need to tear up the carpet and refinish the floor. I need this, that, the other. Whatever. It's getting there. This is what it looks like now:
At least we're moving in the right direction.