Mar 19, 2021
1 mins read
Nausea consumes my insides. The wooden giraffe I'm supposed to paint, Is staring me in the face. But I can't bring myself to do so. "Have fun with it" , says one part of me. The other parts of me, are so consumed with anxiety. I sit face to face with this tiny wooden giraffe, for what seems like hours, but is probably only a few minutes. My stomach, dancing the jitterbug. "Giraffes are two colours, and two colours only". My anxiety, my ocd and my wanting to "have fun with it", have all just met each other. The clock is making this annoying ticking sound, as if to remind me that every millisecond matters. I look for an accurate picture of a giraffe on Google, and begin painting. It has to look exactly like a giraffe.
I colour in the eyes. I already screw that up, but maybe I can fix it. I try to draw eyelashes. But that made it worse. My stomach, continuing to dance around like Tessa virtue and Scott Moir are in there. I try my hand at drawing the spots, and forget about the monstrosity I've already created. The spots have to be done just right. BUT WAIT...
My anxiety wants to know "is it a massai giraffe ? A reticulated giraffe? Because both have different spots!"
Nevermind the fact that this is a WOODEN SCULPTURE from the dollar store (what's up dollar store?!).
I draw on spots and stop. But not until after I realize that my spots make the giraffe look like an atlas ( a GIRAFFE-LAS HAHA)
Again, I stop. I feel nauseous. And angry.
The garbage can is looking pretty good right now. For the giraffe, not me. Although, that's not out of the question.
I look into my garbage can, witnessing the depth (god, I hope that's the right word).
While still nauseous, and anxious, and angry, I forcefully toss the stupid wooden giraffe into the garbage.
I feel better