Oh,
honestly.
Doesn't the man ever
sleep?
Now I am awake, of course, and he's bustling about and making
noise, and there's no sense in going to my other portrait because I cannot abide the dust in it. So, I am resigned to sit here and watch the old sod dither.
I hate being a painting. Why couldn't I be hanging somewhere nicer? Such as the Louvre? Honestly!
Current Mood:
enraged