Fish fed. Don’t lurk.
So my mom is a graphic artist — she mostly does sign work now, and she’s got a collection of stuff she’s done in college, and when she does draw it’s, I’m biased, amazing. And her college work gives me a mighty longing, I’ll be honest. I go in mostly for the realistic. Picasso is one of my least-favourites — Monet is better, but still Impressiony, obviously (which I don’t mind when I’m in the mood, though if we’re going Impressionism screw Monet, I’ll take Renoir any day). I like Degas, and da Vinci is pretty cool, and ugh, Rembrandt, that amazing bastard. I went to the City’s art museum for the first time not long ago to see a travelling exhibit of Rembrandt, and if I could spend days there and just gape, I’d be happy.
I guess I’m for good line and I always have enjoyed people in a painting — I don’t know what that says about me, but I like seeing people and all the ways they can be represented and all the ways they can look and seeing how they can be interpreted (just from a What Art Style Is It study).
I just really like art, I guess.
Also I will never not giggle at “Marten Looten” because that’s a hilarious name.
Dutch names are generally pretty weird actually.
Just look at that lace. I am sexually frustrated because lace. I want to run my hand from his shoulder to his elbow and repeat.
Anyway, my dad is a carpenter by trade (“Just like the Good Lawd Jaysus” his smotheringly Baptist parents probably said at one point or another, if they ever think to think about him) and has unsuccessfully done that for his… well. Not his whole adult life, but for 20 or so years, yeah? He was a bus driver and a limo driver, I know that, but not much else. Also he never rides but never lets anyone else ride a Harley he keeps in the garage to rust — on this Harley he left home at 18 and never looked back (despite this, it still messed him up and I understand that his upbringing was bad [#1 reason for irreligion — a thing you should know about me that is, in fact, a thing] but I also think he is weak — unknown if that’s just part of him or intentional — to be so susceptible to that upbringing. In either case, and he’ll never accept it, he became his father anyway, so it doesn’t really matter).
I also want to make out with a Coldplay song at the moment.
Anyway, I’m not too close to my paternal relatives — I barely know my cousins’ names (though our genders match up so we could all incestually bang without any icky gay stuff). My uncle is a fireman, and (deserves a medal) holds that job steadily. The only cousin I could find on Facebook I don’t recognise — she could live across the street from us and I wouldn’t know.
I won’t talk about my maternal relatives — if you want to know, you can ask, but you won’t. That’s okay. I might go to bed now.