This box started out with a text:
But the box complained that I was letting everyone read its mind.
"That's not what I want," it said. "I want something very pretty. Pretty is what I am."
So I repainted it. I thought it very pretty.
But I awoke the next day to the complaint that it did not like that red dash: take it off!
So I did:
But the next day I awoke to further complaint:
"I asked you to remove the red dash. I didn't ask for a faux distressed finish."
I answered that it had been necessary to sand the surface to remove the red and that part of the black had come off as well; so it was genuine, nothing faux about it.
But the box would have none of that.
"Fix it," it insisted
I added cardboard inserts, as well--though it never thanked me for doing so.
"It's still not right," it sighed."You know what I'm thinking? Those striped pants Picasso had, the ones with the stripes that went around, not up-and-down."
"They'd make you look fat."
"Okay, but I still want stripes, even vertical ones."
"Nice. I like it. But could I ask something more? Could you lay me on my side? That would make everything perfect for me."