Hidden way back in the corner of my closet lays something forgotten for years. It is a paint-by-number painting that I did about five years ago. I don't even remember why I wanted one as I could never quite color inside the lines in grade school. The painting itself is okay, despite lines and number markers of the exact color needed. It's splotchy in places and in others the right color wasn't used. I'm definitely not the world's greatest artist, but I have taken a few art classes and I know my way around a paint brush. It's just the fact that I had to color in those god-forsaken lines. At times, I wanted to just throw it out the window and forget all about my little lined tormentor, but I would not let myself give up. I was determined even though I hated every brush stroke, every tick from the clock. When I finished, I had never been so proud. I stuck it out, did my time, and I thought it looked amazing. I ran around displaying the painting to all my family, and whenever my friends came over I proudly shoved it in front of their eyes for inspection. No one even noticed the imperfections, or so they said. When I saw this painting again, I could not hold back a little chuckle, but the painting also made me realize that maybe it's not so bad that I hate coloring inside the lines.