Going back to those paint cans. Some have labels, while others are blank. Some contain coffee she can’t be bothered pouring down the sink in the communal kitchen, and others are full to the brim with piss because, likewise, she can’t be arsed to walk to the toilets. When she drinks her alcohol, she needs to piss all the time, and her weak bladder means her studio space is littered with dozens of cans sploshing with secret wee. Her strange collection of fluids might have something to do with the fact that her father was a hoarder, god bless his soul, but then again, it might not. It could just be that she’s lazy and wants to minimise the amount of time she has to come into contact with others in the studio. A few times, she’s run out of empty paint cans to relieve herself in and has had to piss in ones still containing valuable paint. It breaks her heart to waste the stuff, and yet it breaks her heart even more to spend time talking with people she has nothing in common with and who share little of the magic that captivates her delicate frame. She keeps meaning to chuck the cans of piss into the dumpster in the parking lot outside, but for some reason finds it comforting to be surrounded by her bodily fluids. Not as comforting as surrounding herself with her paintings, mind, but not far off. If anyone knew, they’d be appalled. But everyone has their quirks. And anyway, what’s more appalling, is other people’s need to appear normal, so for the time being, at least, she’s happy to revel in her ways.