A sound blared in my ears. I soon realized it was my alarm clock.

"Ugh," I thought. "It's time for school.... Again."

I reached out to turn off the alarm, but for some reason I couldn't. I felt as if my arms were tied behind my back, hindering me from moving anywhere. I looked down to see if my blanket was the cause of my struggle, but as I looked towards my bed, I gasped. I could not believe what stood (or should I say lay) plainly before my very eyes: I was a paintbrush. A sleek, red paintbrush, in fact. The sun peeking in through my barely open window shone and reflected off of my handle (body?) and scattered light throughout my bedroom, creating a beautiful array of colors on my walls and ceiling. I admired these twinkling lights for a few seconds, until the harsh screech of my alarm brought me back to Earth.

Although I'm a very calm and relaxed person (now a paint brush), there are some things that truly unnerve me. Turning into a paintbrush over night happens to be one of them. Panic started to creep up into my mind, and I could feel my blood (well, whatever the paint brush equivalent to blood is) rush through my veins.

"What am I going to do?!" I asked myself a bit exasperatedly. "How am I going to get off of this bed and get ready for school? My final exam is today, and I really can't afford another bad grade in U.S. History."

But slowly, as I continued to have my miniature panic attack, I realized what a great opportunity this was for me. It meant I didn't have to go to school anymore (because really, who would want a giant paint brush rolling through the hallways?) and I didn't have to worry about acing this test or writing that paper or memorizing an infinite number of chemical formulas. I was free to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, without restrictions.

Well, this would be true, except for the fact that I couldn't seem to manage to get off of my bed in my new form. I began to twist and turn, trying to get my feet (okay, they really need to start naming paint brush parts) onto my rug, and after about fifteen minutes, I was able to stand up on the rug. That feeling of success was short-lived, however, because almost immediately, I began falling forward towards the ground. I began to hop (do paint brushes hop?) in order to maintain myself upright, and it seemed to work. So for the next half hour, to the glorious shrieking sound of my ancient alarm clock, I hopped all over my room in order to keep myself balanced.

Eventually, I got bored from simply jumping, and an idea popped into my head: why not paint? You are a paint brush, aren't you? So I skipped over to my desk, where I remembered I had left my watercolors and paper from last night's art homework. I stooped down, swirled my smooth bristles (aha! Finally a body part I can accurately name) in the colors, and I began painting. It was a bit uncomfortable at the beginning, but after a while, I grew accustomed to the feeling of stooping over.

I painted for hours (yes, with my alarm clock still ringing, since I didn't have the methods to turn it off), and as I did so, my mind wandered, eventually landing on my present situation. I wondered how I had become a paint brush in the first place: an act of God, a voodoo curse, or maybe just some bad Chinese food. But no matter how I had gotten to where I was, I was happy. For the rest of my life, I would be doing the thing that I love most, with no distractions whatsoever from school, food, or anything.

For the rest of my life, I would be painting.

And I was happy.

And still am, perhaps, the happiest paint brush in the world.