I am a mixture of Gregory Peck.
"You look very sad. Why do you have to look so sad? I don't understand why you paint these things. When are you going to paint something other than yourself? I know you're not a narci... narcasissisi...? A narcissimississippissy...?"
"Yes. I really wish you would paint something else. Like flowers. Or abstracts, like your father."
"You want me to paint like Dad?"
"Maybe I should paint myself to look more like this."
"Just paint a nice flower. Why can't you paint a nice flower?"
"Okay, Mom. I'll paint a nice flower."
"Oh, I went out with Carol and Kris for lunch yesterday and it was a nightmare! The parking was just terrible. But then when I circled a second time a parking spot opened up. There must have been an angel watching over me."
"Angels care about convenient parking."
"Was the parking space shining with a golden holy radiance?"
"You can leave now."
When I got home, I thought how Mom doesn't like my painting. MOMMY DOESN'T LIKE ME. MOMMY DOESN'T LIKE ME. So I put my horrid nasty painting in the fireplace and watched its sad demon face blacken and burn until there was nothing left but bits of teeth and a ring finger. A shriek rang out. I went into convulsions and tore at my entrails and blood spewed from every orifice and I collapsed in a shuddering spewing flesh rotting eye liquefying screaming death.