People who know me a little bit will nod in agreement with this statement, while those who know me better than that will break out into guffaws of mirth.
There are pictures hung upon nearly every wall of my home. The only places bereft of artwork are my bedroom and the bathroom (but the bathroom has an unnecessarily large mirror, so I'm not sure if it counts).
Part of my brain thinks the pictures are great, as in, You have Picasso and Dali prints on your walls, woman! That's so cool! The other, larger, parts of me are made extremely claustrophobic. I feel vaguely persecuted, seeing as there are so damn many of them and only one of me. They stare down at me from their perches on the walls, watching me, judging me when I neglect to comb my hair and mocking me when my chest breaks out in yet another round of acne.
|pretty and un-scary|
But the pictures stay up. Mostly because they're not mine and I didn't put them there, and partly because they were put up by people far better cultured and with much better taste than I. I'm really just not that into decoration, and I have no sense of visual aestheticism. Left to my own devices, if I were to hang anything on the walls, it would probably be something more along the lines of Franz Liszt's Liebestraum enlarged to about 20"x30" and left unframed.
I look at accidentals the way most girls seem to look at sequins. Impractical and kind of itchy, but--ooh!--sparkly!
I have dealt with the intimidation provided by my current decorations by going up to each one systematically and nudging it just a little-bitty amount so that it hangs a touch crooked. Not one is left unprecariously straight.
'Cause I've gotta show the pictures who's boss.