Onward, Ever Onward

I thought I was a sunny sort of person--resilient to life's inevitable slings and arrows.  The sort who, if born a painter during the Renaissance, would have taken commission after commission and fat check after fat check and died in bursting good health at a ripe old age.
I'm nothing of the sort.
Evidently I'm prone to melancholia.
It was a filthy sort of day--the kind that I will tell stories about later.  It ended in staph infection vomit all over my van.  I promptly drove to the store and bought 'a packet of morphine' (Victorian-speak for gummy bears) and then scrubbed my car out as never before.  A blue mist descended on my brow (The gummy bears.) and only the solace of my paints and palate would soothe my troubled spirit.  I'm stinking Vincent van Gogh.

The easy, breezy inspiration

So, no fat commission checks for me.  I probably would have died of consumption in a filthy suburban garret.  Which is only romantic until the rats find you.

I call him "Earnest the Pre-Corpulent Chickadee of Melancholy"

Anyway, as with the rest...it's lovely but don't remind yourself of what it was supposed to be and everything will be alright. ;0)