Dear Birds, as if you haven’t already figured out from my inspiration Tumblr, I’m taking some classes . . . some art classes.
One of these classes, I’ve begrudgingly dubbed it Scribble Madness, maybe very well be the sole source of any and all anxiety I have the misfortune of suffering from every Monday and Wednesday.
As if scribbling and scratching through gestural sketches (the very reason for the oh-so-apt nickname of this Life Drawing course) wasn’t bad enough, drawing old men with saggy ball-skin that eerily reminds you of a turkey’s gobble really puts a fork in it.
Depending on how stomach-able the male model (why no women, yet?) appears that day, I sometimes I eat my lunch during the class. Depending on just how depressing the choice of music sounds, raining from the speakers that day, I sometimes leave that class wanting to slit my wrists. (Obviously joking, but I kid you not, the playlist includes—but is not limited to— every break up song from every British femme import from the last five years. Kate Nash, Adele, Lilly Allen, Florence and the Machine, Amy Winehouse, Duffy, etc. etc. etc. Are you wielding a razor blade yet?)
Until this afternoon, I had been laboring under the misapprehension that I am the only student in this maddening course who absolutely abhors it. In fact, when I’m spacing out, trying to force myself to breathe, because this is one of those classes that subconsciously forces you to quit breathing (whether or not this is a subconscious suicide tactic or is due to overwhelming anxiety is beyond me), I play a little game with myself.
Would you rather go to this class or . . .
. . . Have your teeth pulled by a twisted, sadistic dentist who refuses you anesthesia and insists on doing the yanking with a pair of rusty, old pliers?
. . . Have your entire body (scalp included) waxed?
. . . Spend the rest of your life eating egg-salad sandwiches?
There isn’t much I wouldn’t rather endure, outside of voluntarily ingesting egg-salad sandwiches, if it meant skipping this class. And yet, because I’m sort of a sick masochist I keep showing up.
That’s not even the strangest bit. The strangest bit is that I look forward to this class beforehand (thinking that my drawing won’t be quite as horrendous as the weeks previous), and then, after class ends and I begin the search for a brown paper bag to huff-and-puff into (must.remember.to.breathe), I ask myself self the same exact question that I ask myself after every class, “WHY THE FUCK DID I THINK TODAY WAS GOING TO BE ANY DIFFERENT? WHY DO I LOOK FORWARD TO THIS CLASS WHEN I KNOW IT’S GOING TO MAKE ME WANT TO THROW UP LATER?”
Well, well, well, today was different. Big shocker, eh? Bout time, right?
Kate and I routinely discuss how hostile this class makes me, seeing as she’s in my class that follows Scribble Madness. Today I was giddy with excitement-slash-venomous-disdain for Scribble-Madness when I met up with her in the parking lot, so excited to tell her this breaking news . . .
I showed up early to this class, because it’s one of those courses filled with annoying, over-achieving kiss-asses and if you don’t show up a half hour early, you’re the last one to get there, and thusly, will be without easel or a spot to put your easel, because the grand ol’ State of California is broke, and there are like 500 people in this damn class, everyone one of them but me willing to put fist to cheek for prime position. NOT KIDDING. Where was I going with all this?
Oh yes, I arrived early today, and a fellow classmate, whom we shall henceforth refer to as Arkansas (yes, that makes me Mississippi), seated in the chairs outside the doors, looked up at me and I recognized her. She’s in my AM drawing course. I sat down next to her. We got to chatting, AND HOLY SWEET MOTHER OF BABY JESUS, she also pines for a Xanax-cocktail after Scribble Madness. We laughed and empathized with one another about our not-as-unique-as-we-thought, grave misfortune at having wound up in such a hopeless, stressful situation. (To drop class or not to drop class? Oh wait, there’s nothing to transfer into because again, California is broke-town. We both laughed at this.)
Later on, when the professor came around to inspect my rendering of the skeleton we were working on, he looked more than shocked that he didn’t have any corrections to recommend.
There’s actually nothing that I can see is wrong. (My placement on the page could have been better, though.)
Being the small-hearted, evil-wretch that I am, I almost mouthed, Don’t look so surprised asshole. Couldn’t risk getting chucked, though.
After he told me that I could continue on with increasing my line weight, blah, blah, blah, he asked me, “Are you having fun?”
Now, Birds, this is one of those loaded questions that people always ask me, like am I a bad person for falling in love with a married man? (If I tell you yes, then I will be maligned as a horrible, un-supportive friend.) OR Do you think I should lose weight? (Awkward).
“Are you having fun?”
Poor man. He asked me that question with the heavy expectation that I would respond yes with a smile or something—- How would normal students respond to such a question?
The answer was NO.
No, with my grumpy, bitch-face on. No, no, no, I am not having fun sitting here, wishing that I was at some shanty-town dental facility, getting my canines plucked from my gums with a pair of ripe, ruddy pliers.
I hate Scribble Madness.
The unfortunate thing is that professors, even the smarter ones, want to think that a frigid cynic like myself can somehow be tricked in enjoying class. Pfffff, screw Patrick Henry, give me A BAD ATTITUDE or give me DEATH!!!!
And then, because I’m just that small, Birds, you better believe after my professor walked away, looking dejected, muttering some horse-shit about “Well, at least you’re honest,” I looked around at all the smug-faced, artsy-fartsy bastards in that class, the ones who force me to show up a half-hour early just so that I can get a seat where I can actually see the model, and thought to myself, SUCK ON THAT, BITCHES! While all of you are busy making corrections, I am going to be increasing my line weight, blah, blah, blah. All you tart fuckers can kiss my un-artsy ass!!!
As Kate and I continued to discuss how this class makes bile creep up the back of my throat, I told her something like, “You know, it’s not the professor, because he’s actually quite good and I’m actually improving really rapidly. I’m not so ignorant that I can’t be objective about things with regards to my emotions, but there is something about that class that makes me sick.”
It’s the truth, you know, and while I would never give my professor the satisfaction of knowing that he manages to teach me quite well, that doesn’t mean I have to lie to myself about it. (Shrugging shoulders now.) (Although, I really do hate when he stands behind me when I’m drawing, watching me. I will inevitably freeze up, and he will inevitably say something like, “Don’t freeze up,” and I will have to concentrate on keeping my smart mouth shut, so I don’t get chucked from class. None of my other professors do that, thank heavens. The dutiful Muslim wife rule should always be employed in these situations, Birds. He should be at least 10 feet behind me at all times, not lurking just behind me.)
Until next Monday, I’m Scribble Madness Freeeeeeeeee, AND NOHEA’S MOVING TO VEGAS FRIDAY!
Yipppppppeeeeeee!!!!!!!!
Let’s hope next Monday I can wipe some more smug smiles off those tarty broads’ faces. Especially the poufy-haired one who seriously resembles the Cheshire cat from Alice and Wonderland.
Her presence in my life is particularly egregious.
Happy Thursday, Pretty, Pretty Birds.
Expect some posts involving nude drawings of saggy, old dudes soon.
Don’t laugh, I do it in the name of art every wherrrrrrre.
Muahahahahahaha.
(Really though, feeling quite maniacal these days.)
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