Post by maddlythedumbass on Nov 28, 2011 22:00:55 GMT -5
Edith Bonheur
Edith was once a beautiful young woman who had a wonderful life ahead of her. She was a fantastic artist and was quite well known, and got quite a profit off of her paintings.
Art was her life.
She lived and breathed art.
Then one day, depression struck.
Edith was no longer motivated to do the things that once kept her alive.
Her younger brother, a snotty journalist, refused to help her. He told her to get over it and move on, dubbing her sickness as an act for attention because her art wasn't as captivating as it once was.
Edith became a hermit.
The only time she went outside was for booze runs.
She rarely painted, and when she did, the results were mediocre and uninspiring.
She of course started running out of money and decided to work some odd jobs to pay rent and cover for booze.
Eventually, though, she got tired of feeling the way she did and started to paint again.
Now, she is a woman in her thirties. She is an alchoholic. Her fair, slender figure is usually hunched over in her favorite chair. Her dark scraggly hair hovers over her shoulders and her grey eyes peek out from the shadow of her velvet hat. She usually has a wide grin full of train-wrecked teeth.
Her hygiene is poor and she loves to paint at the park and scare children. And drink.
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www.queeky.com/remote/slide/800x800/157812/source.jpg [/img]
Edith was once a beautiful young woman who had a wonderful life ahead of her. She was a fantastic artist and was quite well known, and got quite a profit off of her paintings.
Art was her life.
She lived and breathed art.
Then one day, depression struck.
Edith was no longer motivated to do the things that once kept her alive.
Her younger brother, a snotty journalist, refused to help her. He told her to get over it and move on, dubbing her sickness as an act for attention because her art wasn't as captivating as it once was.
Edith became a hermit.
The only time she went outside was for booze runs.
She rarely painted, and when she did, the results were mediocre and uninspiring.
She of course started running out of money and decided to work some odd jobs to pay rent and cover for booze.
Eventually, though, she got tired of feeling the way she did and started to paint again.
Now, she is a woman in her thirties. She is an alchoholic. Her fair, slender figure is usually hunched over in her favorite chair. Her dark scraggly hair hovers over her shoulders and her grey eyes peek out from the shadow of her velvet hat. She usually has a wide grin full of train-wrecked teeth.
Her hygiene is poor and she loves to paint at the park and scare children. And drink.