My way of doing that was to give myself the gift of learning to draw and paint. I get to do that, because I'm an adult. And being an adult means, with a few exceptions which are outlined in the codes of law in your particular municipality, you can do whatever the hell you want, and your family and teachers from school and people in your past can all go fuck themselves.
Of course, they don't need YOUR permission.. After all, they're adults. They can just up and fuck themselves whenever they want.
"That's quite a precarious perch," I said, being friendly.
Emphasis on "you."
I don't look like an art student. I don't look like an art student. This guy doesn't think I belong here. I suppose his friends standing with him felt the same. And for whatever reason, he felt the need to say it aloud.
I bet you think it was something like "Well then, what the fuck DO I look like to you? The janitor? I'm not sure if you've ever tried to plunge a toilet with an eighteen-by-twenty-four clipboard and some charcoal, but it doesn't work that well! Or wait -- do you think I look like a janitor who is also really stupid and forgot the correct tools? I didn't get the memo that there was a dress code to enter this building! Tell me, stick figure! Tell me what the fuck I look like! I'm excited to hear your assessment!" And so on.
"Eh," I said. And then I shrugged and walked in the door. I didn't even ask what he meant. His verbal photon torpedoes impacted on the surface. It wasn't until I got to the door of the classroom that it hit me, what had just happened. And you want to know the really confusing-yet-comforting part? I wasn't proud. I wasn't overjoyed. I wasn't even mildly amused.
I was happy.