AFTER-ART-SCHOOL-PERSONALITY

AFTER ART SCHOOL PERSONALITY She takes her after-art-school-personality to the bus station, where a guy sits in his business suit and awaits his ride downtown. She knows him from somewhere, some social event 7 years ago, he is still a big shot, she is still a non-big shot. This murks her, reluctantly. She takes her after-art-school-personality to the art school library, she might as well write, she might as well start selling her words, she might as well, might as well. Art school, who the f. goes 2 art skool? How can you insert your art degree somewhere in between all the other degrees, how can you possibly make 20 dollars per hour with a BFA. She ponders, ponders, not so much about bouts of existential angst, more about this stupid keyboard, that is so off, it is filthy, it is resistant to the push, each letter takes double the effort than the keyboard that faces the wall. The library is not exactly desolate, outside it is not exactly raining, Granville Island is not exactly happening. But her art career, it is so exactly non-happening. These are her days, her days, crying sobbingly into the keyboard and any keyboard will do. End of week oregontrip, facing people congratulating her, laughing behind her back, she is no MOMA material, look at her. Momaists look different, prettier, less pretty, anyhoo, they don’t look like that. She is the antithesis of hip and she is not happening, artists, they are hip and happening. Young, starving, ah, look at her, she is old and fat. Her art should suck. Negativity on paper, ah, low self esteem, that is how after art school personalities evolve. Making whining and cringing an art form, that is how nihilism is starting to incubate. She stops her text, it is more artistic to leave it hanging in mid-air. She, she. A self portrait in words. So very, very after art school.