No Accounting For Taste

I think the previous owner of this apartment, or at least whatever interior decorator he chose to employ, might have been in cahoots with the designer of my cell phone. The handful of art decorating the walls is pretty weird and, though unoffensive, definitely not what I would have chosen.

I'll start in the kitchen. Looking out over the dining table, we have a little girl, apparently on enormous quantities of growth hormone (either that, or very radioactive), looking like she is about to lay waste to a section of some unsuspecting town. Of course, she is humming Bobby McFerrin.


Then we have the triptych of portraits in my bedroom. The guy in the leftmost picture sort of looks like Marc Almond, but I have no idea who the rest of these people are, nor what they are doing gazing out at me from the wall. It's a little bit creepy to wake up to this every morning.


Finally, we come to the "spare" bedroom, a space that sets new Swedish, European, and World records for fugliness. It looks as if someone went in there after eating several gallons of peas and then exploded.


Oh, yeah, there are roses on the wall, too. I'm keeping this door locked.