|Dame Barbara Cartland penning one of her early works of literary genius.|
I wish I had written this letter to myself in 2007:
Dear 2007 Mitchell (heretofore known as "Dumbass"),
Please don't paint your stair hall deep terracotta orange.
I don't care how much you "love" the colour. In the near future you will grow to hate it and want it to be painted in one of the only two colours you have used consistently, liked, lived with, and not regretted since your first apartment in 1995; namely, robin's egg blue or off-white. Please don't insist that "life is too short for neutrals" or that you "need a change."
You, Dumbass, no matter how much you protest otherwise, only really like two kinds of wall colors: those that run the exciting gambit from creamy off-white to pale golden kakhi or those that range from grey/green/blue to blue/grey/green to green/blue/grey. No matter how hard you try to convince yourself that you are some sort of bon vivant BoHo artist, you are only a repressed small town Protestant who can't handle that much excitement in decor.
Shortly, in order to save your sanity, and only after resorting to emotional blackmail (which will leave you feeling bad--at least until the margaritas kick in---you will need to increase your self-medication from wine to tequila), you will have to convince Thomas of a need to change the paint color that YOU insisted on over his objections. You will then have to paint layer upon layer of Rainwashed over that orange during Labor Day Weekend while the rest of country cavorts around you, as that will be your only spare time. And you will grow to hate life,