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My intent was not to paint the most repulsive mug, ever. But I have. my eyes are burning!
Coffee poured in will instantly go cold. The tea bags will split in disgust. Hot cocoa will harden into a brick. If marshmallows could scream, they would. They would. Liquids fear any association with the travesty. The waste of paint, pottery, studio time, and firing fees are shameful.

I signed it before it was fired. The bottom has my signature, so that everyone will know from here to eternity that I am responsible. Future archeologists will toast to me when their day of work is through, for giving them a giggle.

They will write about the practice of MOPS women gathering at pottery painting studios to eat too many brownies—In between eating and laughing, some of them tried painting. The results were mixed, with most of the ladies managing to make cute mugs. The ladies laughed about how God sprinkles differently talented people around. And then they looked at Gretchen’s mug and said it’s interesting.

The owner of the studio gathered the mugs and asked Gretchen how she would describe her mug. Gretchen answers: Moroccan.

I’d like to apologize to Moroccans everywhere.

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