Maybe just this one time I deserve to choke on the second hand smoke, or maybe it’s just apparent that I’m inhaling hard this time hoping my lungs will pop and I won’t have to sit through this painful three hour critique. I should just be the cyclopse and stare a little harder at every face in this circle until they all just evaporate. Clenched fists to every word slipping from your mouth. Your words are harsh, the type that constantly leaves headaches in the kind who take things too personally. And who’s to say what is art these days. Deemed as this detrimantal thing that must disturb before it is fit to critisize. You can’t make butterflies unless you take an AK-47 and blow their brains out and remind the class what it represents. There is no beauty these days unless there is pain, and in our pain we must find beauty. Does anybody see this irony? “So shoot me in the gallery- we’ll call it art, you can critique the blood stains on the floor.”