Picked up a brush for the first time in maybe five years. Always admired Bob Ross—not just his art, but the man himself. The way he spoke to the canvas, to the viewer, like every mistake was just a happy little accident waiting to be embraced. So, I tried. One of his "easy" paintings, he said. Easy.

It started god-awful. Every stroke felt clumsy, my colors muddy, my sky more like a warzone than a gentle gradient. Halfway through, I ran out of white paint and had to set it aside, frustrated. But I came back. I almost gave up—would have, honestly, if not for Bob's calm voice in the background assuring me that "We don't make mistakes, just happy little accidents." So I kept going. And somehow, by the end, it didn't look half bad. Not good, mind you, but decent. More than acceptable for a first attempt.

I owe some credit to my little sister for this, too. They say some people are born with gifts, and if I had to name someone like that, it'd be her. She's the one who nudged me into this—her childish, persistent wish to paint together finally got me off my eternal rotting state. Maybe that's all it takes sometimes—someone expecting you to show up, even just to play.

My mother's reaction, though, was... amusing. "You did that?" she asked, as if the sun had decided to rise in the north-east. I don't blame her, really. According to her, my only interests are sleeping and, well, more sleeping. She doesn't know about the writing, the painting, the photography, the way I obsess over niche films and dissect them frame by frame. It's not that she's ignorant or cold—her love is just... distant. Quiet. She admires me in fragments, from afar. I wonder what she thought of her mother at my age. Probably not much, considering that around this time some nineteen years ago, she was marrying my father.

Nothing else too notable today, though someone said I look like Clairo, which made me smile.

Maybe tomorrow, I'll paint again.