this is what happens at 2:00am when your best friend decides you need to pretend you are an artist (you’re not), slaps a 90”x 70” canvas to her wall, hands you 20 cans of paint, and says “go.”

there are few things i wouldn’t do for my friends.

there is almost nothing i wouldn’t do for jordan.

friends since we were fourteen, she taught me the meaning and importance of road-tripping to new orleans in the middle of the night on a total whim.

[do this. it’s amazing. just bring some red bull.]

she tells me like it is and accepts it when i do the same.

she’s abundantly funny.

and makes me asks me tells me is my wingman to do some crazy shit.

[like road-tripping to new orleans in the middle of the night on a total whim.]

so it was only appropriate when, at 2am a few nights ago and in the throws of trying to redecorate her west village apartment for the NINE THOUSANDTH TIME, that she would ask me to paint her some art.

[you mean me? as i survey her otherwise empty apartment, hoping someone else is standing in the middle of the room. wearing a smock.]

and only appropriate that i would so quickly oblige.

[sure. it’s only 2am. this will undoubtedly be incredible. just don’t hold your breath.]

and so, it began. what began? i wouldn’t actually know until it was sun-up 7am and i could barely see straight and had already made a 5:12am run to the bodega across the street for a 6-pack. don’t judge. and by god if you ask me to do something with so much lunacy behind it as paint you a massive mural at 2am, you can bet your sweet ass i will make a run for a 6-pack at some point. if you want a beer too, get your own.]

oh. so you really weren’t kidding about this project. fantastic. i’m only 3 seconds away from passing out, but BRING IT. MEASURE THAT SHIT, HOMIE.

okay, hang on. this thing is a beast. and you want me to do WHAT with it exactly?

because it’s now about 3:47am, you batshitcrazy perfectionist.

i’m really tired. can i please stop soon? like six hours ago soon?? like how did you rope me into this soon? oh yeah, and now it’s my birthday (for reals) and i’m going to be a zombie all day. thanks. let’s do this again sometime never.

aaaaannnndddd now it’s seven o’clock in the morning. i’m done. i hope you love it. (she does.) and i hope you don’t put it on the curb like you did those bedside tables you made me spend 49 hours in ikea mulling over.

and i want to go home.

i NEED to go home.

I’M. GOING. HOME.

except that i’m not.

because now you want me to overanalyze some army green metal desk that you think is going to change your life.

well, here’s my 2 cents.

i hate the fucking desk.

it belongs in an insane asylum.

and right now, so do i.