They Didn't Like Me

I remember that at art school, no one particularly much liked me. First of all, I was a chain smoker, including in all my classes. That pretty much had it in for me.

But they especially didn't like my pointillism. No one liked it; not the teachers, not my fellow students, not my pals. They didn't like how I would obsessively ensconce myself in my closet-sized drawing room for literally hour upon hour, smoke, and use the tiniest-possible rapidograph and, with infinite patience, go dot-dot-dot-dot-dot to make insane drawings known only to me. They especially didn't like it when I presented them in class. Their drawings were fairly traditional, done in traditional ways, but mine were WEIRD.

So they didn't like me. Not the teachers, who I always seemed to argue with about the concept of "composition" (still, what the fuck IS that?) or the students, because I was weird. I drank scotch and was the editor of the college newspaper, so then they ESPECIALLY didn't like me. THEY HAD TO GO THROUGH ME TO GET THEIR HUMANITIES CREDITS BY WORKING ON THE NEWSPAPER.

But what really got me to thinking about this was some other insane maniac -- really, these guys belong in small rooms with padded softwear.

A lunatic named Shigeo Fukuda, who chose to assemble FUCKING FORKS AND KNIVES TO MAKE A SHADOW PATTERN ON A WHITE BACKGROUND.

Just think of HOW MUCH HIS COLLEAGUES, TEACHERS, GIRLFRIENDS, FRIENDS, ENEMIES AND NUDE MODELS HATED HIM.

Thank you for your attention in this urgent matter.

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