Roy wished he had a drug problem, so his family could sit around him solemnly and talk, and he could get teary and listen, and then agree with sincerity, the whole thing a success! He had no addictions and was afraid to start any. If he was moody his friends gave him pills, and his girlfriend brought him back a drug on vacation, a rare one, a good one, but this he kept in a wooden box with secret compartments that were obvious and easy to open.
Once he was an artist and his girlfriend, (an earlier, sterner one) told him that artists were just people who wasted time with fake worlds. She was a realist. She thought artists created problems in fake worlds so they didn't have to live in this world. Roy agreed, but didn't think it bad. He'd paint a weirdo with five legs and five feet, and then he'd sit back and mull. This weirdo would have to have special pants, Roy would all-a-sudden know. Pants would get painted in an exhausted heap on the bed. Weirdo pants with five legs. This was the problem solving of an artist.
His earlier girlfriend was a purist, he had thought. But then he thought of another friend who might be a purist. And then another. He could argue all his friends as purists in one way or another, each personality had an extreme effect on the life of their body, but that wasn't purism, was it? No, that was different.
At the corner store a young lady had spilled chocolate milk all over the ground and was sulkily cleaning it up. Roy wanted to help and ripped open the plastic on a roll of paper towels. He was resourceful and the clerk yelled at him, which made him rebellious. The young lady was rebellious also. A carton of chocolate milk had gotten in her way, and she had messed that carton up until it was an ominous spread on the floor. She'd destroyed it. It looked like shit, but Roy could smell it, and it smelled fine.