The living room/kitchen is half painted in a nice, golden-brown textured paint. My bedroom door is now a magentic chalk board.
I just drew an alpine night scene on it… with an aurora…
yea, I’m stoked.
The best part is — tomorrow, if I hate it? it totally erases…
*dance*
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“It’s like the Bob Ross of electronics or software: ‘Let’s code up a happy little guy here… and have him talk to this happy little guy over here…’.”
- Me, explaining software engineering.
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He pulls off the freeway, finally, eyes weary from hours of endless driving. He rubs his eyes thoroughly as he exits his ride – a stolen ’67 caddy. It had the works: leather seats, chrome trim, everything. The familiar smell of this old haunt fills his nostrils as the gravel from the parking lot crunches under his boots.
Inside was every manner of theif, robber, crook, mad man, and killer this side of the divide. All of them high on something: booze, grass, the thrill of the hunt. He takes his time outside, finding every tank and pipeline, carefully setting his trap unbeknownst to the revellers inside. This had always been his favorite part of this type of work.
The floor creaks as he enters the front door, and you can almost see the wave of awe spread across the bar. The scene goes from a racuous party to subdued, anxious disbelief in a matter of 10 seconds. Hushed whispers spread across the room, like smoke drifting in the air.
The bartender nervously continues cleaning shot glasses with his rag.
“Ahh, Mr. Spohn,” booms a familiar, jovial voice from the private balcony above the bar. “Good to see you in such… good health.”
All too knowing, thought Spohn.
“Please, come on in. Enjoy yourself. Bar-man! Get this man something warm to drink,” he commands with a wink.
But enjoyment was not on the evening’s menu. Mr. Spohn had a taste for something more … primative. A warm drink did sound good, what with the bitter cold outside…
But then, revenge is a dish best served cold…
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