Not having a decent job in my late 20s was like training me to get used to high blood pressure. Every day walking home and going to the art studio whose walls were starting to rot and moldy wouldn't have felt so bad if only there wasn't someone to greet me. An old man, bald but with a white beard, and often wearing a shabby blue flat cap wrapped around his shaved head. An annoying old man who always said "such a hard day" or "Coffee will make you fine" every time I passed in front of his small shop that was always empty of customers. A stupid shop that sold useless things: some flowers that had been cut from their stems, a vase that was almost broken, perfume that was almost finished, even cookies that were almost expired. My career that had always failed since I was first accepted into the art studio made me even more miserable. Especially with the retirement of the old owner and then replaced by his son who seemed indifferent to this family business that should have closed down long ago. A clown who liked to rule, but always slept in his room. Now, my life couldn't possibly get any more miserable than this.