Late teens or early twenties.
Out with a few people. Wind up at the apartment of a hot girl en route to somewhere else with a number of other people.
Want to fuck her.
She’s got her art all over the place. Really terrible acrylics. Close-ups of eyes; mystical crystal light refraction; and various other “I’m not only popular because I’m an incredible piece of ass, I’m a deep and meaningful soul,” themes that seem significant to people who are anything but.
Can tell she really wants to engage about her art. Wants to be fed more lies about her talent and worth.
Stare at the woman with cats’ eyes painting. (Self-portrait?)
Can’t fuckin do it. Say nothing.
Rest of the evening goes nowhere. Go home and try to beat off to thoughts of her. Can’t even finish.
Switch thoughts to the waitress of the bar.
Success. Sleep.
Muse Vassal 