I tried to paint your portrait. The only brush I could find was much too big. Your head is naturally large, so my brush was of no concern. The problem was recreating your features with four inches of bristles.
Your eyes were a piece of cake; dark empty holes void of feeling, but your fire engine red smile ran down your chin and dripped onto the white space I only imagine is your shoes... nice and expensive looking.
Just because I have a brush, it doesn’t mean I am a painter. I did a fine job on you though… Dead on.