Fires, Hoarding, and Art – A Story About Chef’s Art

Today, I had to ask myself if I’m a bad person. Maybe.

Lately, with a few exceptions here and there, I’ve started to find the whole last year of my life less tragic and more funny. Is that

weird? I’ve always believed that the opposite of love wasn’t hate, but indifference, and I think I’ve finally moved into that realm of thinking. And now, as I skim through my diaries from the last year, I’m finding things that were really traumatic and painful at the time, somewhat funny now. For instance, Chef was trying to turn into this hoarder kind of guy, and I was constantly battling him about putting his “art” around the house. There is no way to describe this stuff other than to say, wow. That is a lot of trash you glued together, buddy. I didn’t say that, of course. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but whatever that drug did to him, it didn’t make him artistic. His “projects” would disappear the minute he left the house. I couldn’t stand it.

Chef spent many an hour cutting extension cords and splicing random pieces of it together to make this odd, multi-colored, extra-long extension cord guaranteed to burn down the house with all of us in it. Those, too, would magically disappear when he left because I wasn’t quite ready to die. What amazes me even more is that I found none of this funny at the time, yet I’m sitting here laughing my butt off now.

Either it is really funny, or I’ve finally lost my mind. 🙂

The last time I was at his house, I finally told him that his house looks like hell. It is covered in his “art” now, and it looks just terrible. Even the dogs agreed with me, sitting on the couch with depressed looks on their faces. I could tell they were wondering why they were suddenly surrounded by the city dump. He was, of course, offended, and told me that I wouldn’t recognize good “art” if it hit me in the face. I picked up this broken vase that he had glued to some kind of rusted coffee can with holes punched into it, and a little decorative light installed inside. I noticed that the cord to the light had been spliced together with a brown cord and a white one.

“Really?” I asked him, pointing to the coffee can.

“You just don’t understand art. You see trash. I see art,” he said, defensively.

“I see a fire and potentially a spot on that show about Hoarders in your future,” I told him.

“Well, T likes it. She thinks I have a lot of talent,” he quipped.

“She also thinks you’re sober, handsome,  and just misunderstood. I’d get a second opinion if I were you, ” I told him, smarting a little from his mention of the other woman.

He made me leave.

I’m sorry, but I find this stuff hilarious now. Am I losing my mind?

— Bird