This is the part where I complain. Again.

Hey people not reading this blog, I'm back to talk to myself.

Today's topic? "Artists" and their whining.

I should start this one off by saying that I am in the arts, I do artistic things, I have a degree that is unmistakably artsy, and I probably annoy a lot of people with all this art-ing that I do. I mean I am, essentially, an artist...in some form or another. However, I don't care. And I'm going to ignore my own hypocrisy fervently and with gusto. Because even though I am some kind of artist, and I admit it freely, I am definitely not an "artist." No, no, no. This is something else...I mean really. I'm talking about a whole different kind of creature, here.

I'm talking about the "artist" who does artistic things badly and claims quality doesn't matter. I'm talking about the "artist" who stands on a subway platform without a permit and plays Yanni. Badly. I'm talking about the "artist" who thinks that art is a forum for self-indulgence and forces people to listen to them cry into their beer for ten minutes on an album called "I hate my ugly mug." I mean, honestly.

Control yourself.

I can barely stand my best friends in their moments of utter self-pity when they're crying into their beer (which...if they're crying into their beer that ultimately means I'm probably drunk, and lord knows drunk people have a higher tolerance for bullshit.) No, even inebriated, I grit my teeth against the lilting sing-song of my closest acquaintances when they happen to be feeling sorry for themselves. So one can only imagine me sober and being forced to listen to some stranger, who looks like a cheap imitation of Johnny Depp, moaning and groaning in the subway tunnels . Yes, I'm talking about those people we all know and hate. Those people who give us daily headaches and then beg for our money. Those people who give the artists (notice the lack of a finger hug) of the world a really REALLY bad name.

I have so many things I'd like to say to this not-so-fascinating species which is slowly but surely creeping its way into my artistic ecosystem. So many things. Like, for example: Hey, sad doll, complain to your therapist instead of me and get a job in a high end clothing store because lord knows bad attitudes are a requirement in those places.

But that's just one idea. I could go on and on, trust me. I've spent sixty minute subway rides compulsively thinking about it.

My argument, which I'm sure can and will be debated in a really hostile sort of way, is that the point of art is to unveil the honest truth of things. We artists (not to be confused with "artists") should stand up and declare the heart of the matter. The heart of the entire matter. Not just the heart of our own individual rotten egg salad sandwich of a life.

Seriously, why all this complaining dressed as artistic genius?

Come on, Depp Doppelganger, lay it on me. Shine your over-used black light on some burning questions we're all dying to get the answers to. Like what is the fucking point of the slow rip-my-own-hair-out shit you're making us suffer through? When will emo actually be out? And WHY doesn't a single one of this very specific brand of people take a music lesson? I mean, can they hear themselves? Wait, actually, I know this one. No they cannot hear themselves. They're all under the extremely unfortunate and misinformed impression that they don't need lessons. In fact, I'm pretty sure most of them think the lessons will kill their artistic buzz, so to speak.

I hate to break it to you, faux-Johnny, but the odds of you being the Franz Schubert of the new millennium are so not in your favor. And in case the reference was too vague I can explain. Schubert was a crazy person in the 1800's who was famous by the age of 19 and was accurately called a musical prodigy and a genius. Accurately. Tough concept, I know.

So, with that in mind, will the real geniuses please stand up?

Not so fast, Johnny-wanna-be, please take your spot at the back of the line. This just in, you're a normal guy, like everybody else. The same way that I am a normal gal. (yeah ok so normal is a stretch but for the sake of the argument let's just agree to leave that one alone.) You're regular. Average. Fine, but not awesome. And no I will not give you five dollars. Or one dollar. Or a quarter. Instead of me giving you a quarter why don't you go to a music class and learn about being in tune.

But, you know, that's just a crazy thought I'm tossing out there.

Also, John Boy, in case you're still thinking you're Schubert (because there is ALWAYS someone who considers him or herself to be the exception) just fyi, he died of syphilis at the ripe old age of 33.

Yeah, you read that right. He died. Of syphilis. At the age of 33.

How's "artistic genius" looking to you now, sad sack?