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I’ll begin with its origin. Someone chopped down a tree and stole the apples. This formed a one-room house with no windows completely painted red. The Red House, as it became known, is where I was raised. One day, while I was painting a picture of the house, one of my brothers (another person living in the house) took a stick and bashed my painting into little pieces. It was the death of my creativity. I got up, grabbed the stick from him, and beat him over the head a few times until he started to cry. The majority of brothers and sisters came over to me in their usual attire of dresses and suits with their no no no attitudes, and pointed in my face. They told me that I had broken the stereotypical artist’s manner, and if I wanted to be violent, why wasn’t I a bully like the brother I just carried to never never land?  I revolted in my usual way. I started a collection of waste. What I mean by waste is the trash by the brothers and sisters. I thought a good way to get at people was to show them their bad side. They were all so neat and perfect most of the time that I wanted to load up their imperfections, and fill the house with them. I did this, but the plan heavily backfired. Showing them their bad sides opened their eyes. They tore off their suits and dresses, and began wearing the trash. I started a whole new culture. The elders spoke to me about my actions. They told me that the heap of trash I collected was art because it made them all realize something about themselves they had ignored. I told them it wasn’t art; it was just revenge. They told me it was art, and that I was too young to know the difference. I said nothing and went over to the trash dump filled with perfections, grabbed me a suit, and put it on. I wanted to be a critic when I grew up.