Death of an Artist

I'm a little creeped right now. I just found out today that I have killed an artist... no, dozens of artists. And the saddest thing of all is that I meant to kill them. I just didn't realize at the time that their elegant little creations were indeed masterpieces. Unfortunately, I saw their works, and the only interpetation I came up with, was that I was supposed to be angry.

I've poisoned some, beat others, even broke a few necks when I offered food and drink to them. Perhaps the most violent death I've ever seen of an artist was when my brother got one to stick his tongue against cold metal, and then proceded to beat him to death against the studs of a structure... while still keeping control of his tongue.

Today, I wrestle with guilt. After reading this article, I realize that I am a murderer. All the uncontrollable wrath I've felt after seeing "exhibitions" on display, and the vengeance I've wreaked soon after. Not only at the farm, but here in town, too. I should probably turn myself in.

I'll probably never know what demarcates an artist from a pest. But I still believe that rodents chewing things up need to be exterminated. I've done it before, and I'll do it yet again.