The photographic medium is clearly beautiful. I am enamored with it. I wish I could say I am an inspired artist. I am not. My brain is filled with lead. I am moored to the couch, which causes me guilt and anxiety at being so stupidly common. This state of crippled restlessness lasts for long periods. Then, in a fitful explosion of vanity disguised as inspiration, I frantically turn to conjuring up some sort of cleaver artistic endeavor to prop up my feeling of superiority. But alas, my best ideas are usually not my own, and I am left struggling to figure out which toothpaste commercial inspired this one. For a short time I am relived at having completed something and become smitten with the work as if it were a new kitten. And thanks to the endurance of post modernism I can once again call myself an artist.