I hate painting. I hate it with a passion normally reserved for Brussels sprouts and Enya albums. I hate it more than listening to Brian Lally commentating on a GAA match. I hate it more than I hate the Late Late Show. More than I hate bad hip-hop. More than I hate having an itchy scalp on a hot sweaty day.
More than boils. More than piles. More than fake smiles.
That’s how much I hate painting the house and yet I still do it.
Why? Because I’m stupid. That’s why. Because every time I decide to paint the house, I’ve forgotten what an absolute shit I made of it the last time.
I am the world’s worst painter and I know it well. I’m terrible. Police should come and arrest me if I’m seen with a roller in my hand. Militia should taser me. Snipers should terminate me with extreme prejudice.
As a painter, I’m a disgrace. I bring shame to the world of incompetent painters. Bad painters point at me and say, Well, I can’t be worse than him.
I can’t work the paint into the little woodwork details. I can’t cut in the colours between the ceiling and the wall. I can’t decorate anything without leaving a slather of paint across the walls, the floors, the furniture and any hapless animal that wanders past.
I can’t paint anything without painting everything else around it as well.
I’m the world’s worst painter, and yet here I am, failing once again to learn from experience.
Will I ever learn?