Arty Anguish

I have about as much skill with a paintbrush as a rotten tree stump.

Academic subjects, I can cope with. Sports, I'm rubbish but I'll give it a go. But Art. Art is a whole different battle. Even in Maths, my worst academic subject, I can beat the monster over the head with a calculator until it surrenders, and the Sciences quail before the sight of a large encyclopedia.
But there is no weapon I can employ against art.

Paintbrushes, paper mache, charcoal, sculpting clay, artists' pencils - each and every artistic appliance in existence is out to get me. My skin has turned the colours of the rainbow after a vicious kamikaze attack by a set of overzealous acrylic paints and I bear many wounds on my hands from sneaky guerilla movements with the snide little mechanisms used to sculpt.

But no-one ever believed me. None of my classmates saw how art; such a gentle, easygoing, loveable creature to them, would turn around and sink it's claws into my brain the moment I laid hands on an easel. They didn't see the way it taunted me, laughing at my pathetic efforts to draw still life, or mocked my vain attempts to emulate the beatiful sculptures of my classmates and ending up with something that could only be described as a blob of grey snot.

I fled the art classroom two years ago, vowing and swearing by all the gods that may exist that I would never return. I ran out of that door, smeared all over with charcoal and scarred from my most recent accident with the edge of the treacherous workbench.

I can only hope I will never have to go back. I have thrown all my force into surviving my long hard battle with art over the years; my strength is spent and I have nothing else to throw at it.

I do not believe I could survive another battle of that kind. Now I just have to hope I have run away fast enough....

The End

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