On the way to the Edinburgh Modern Art Gallery today it occurred to me that I may have completely fucked up my life by coming to the UK. No job. No money. No nothing.
Angie and I argued. She went home in disgust at my negativity.
I trundled on towards the gallery with Jethro. I was filled with rage, but a determined sort of rage. A rage to take Jethro to the gallery, see the giant furniture, and have a nice time no-matter-what goddammit!
I rounded the corner and beheld the gallery façade…
The neon lights knocked me forcefully. I fell to a bench, and my anger flushed out of me. It wet my gloves as it fled through my hands to the floor. Then it was gone—my red eyes and damp gloves the only evidence of it having ever existed.
When I stopped crying we went inside. . The giant furniture was amusing. The tourists were life-like. Edvard Munch’s lithographs were chilling.
Jethro and I had a wonderful time. I think I believe Martin Creed.