Nothing Would Change if I Was an Artist

I'm a painter. They say I'm a pretty good one. Everyone thinks it's so great. Giving your life to art. 

Well it's not. I'm fucking miserable. I could't produce an original piece if the future of the entire planet depended on it.

Every once in a while I get a stroke of inspiration, and I don't eat, or sleep, or shit until I finish the bloody thing, or until I faint.

Then it's done, and I move away from it, and I see it's a complete piece of unoriginal, condescending, consumer friendly shit. 

I wish to burn it, but my greedy wife says we have to eat, and so I give it to my greedy dealer to sell. 

I think the two of them could spend eternity fucking each other's brains out if they weren't to obsessed by their love for money to really care about sex.

Anyway, the bastard sells my little unoriginal, good-for-nothing babies, the high school cheer leaders and quarterbacks of art - all of them pretty, sterile, vapid and dumb, and I sit in the corner watching the smart kids, the outcasts, the artists - envying them so much it hurts.