Laughing Skies

You ever just go outside at night, take a deep breath, look up at the stars, and think, “Wow… maybe tonight I’ll find clarity, maybe I’ll feel connected to the universe, maybe I’ll finally understand my purpose.”

Yeah. That was me tonight.

I walked outside with the kind of hopeful energy usually reserved for people who think they can fix their life with one Pinterest quote. I looked up at the stars and thought, “Tonight, I’m going to paint the night sky. I’ll capture something beautiful and profound. Maybe even life-changing.”

I set up my little folding chair. I got my paint set — which I bought during that one week I convinced myself I was the next Bob Ross (spoiler: I’m not). I had my canvas ready, my brush in hand, and the stars above me twinkling like they knew all my secrets.

First stroke: “Oh… this is going to be good,” I told myself. I felt like an enlightened monk on a mountain.

Second stroke: “Huh… okay, maybe the brush is too wet. No big deal.”

Ten minutes in, I step back and realize… I’ve somehow painted what looks like a raccoon laughing at me. Not a cute raccoon either. The kind of raccoon that rummages through your trash at 3 a.m., makes direct eye contact, and dares you to do something about it.

I tried to fix it. Added more stars. Somehow now it has a unibrow. I added a moon. Now it looks like it’s wearing a helmet.

I looked up at the sky for guidance. The universe looked back at me and basically said, “Bro, that’s on you.”

By this point, I was deep in my feelings. I started questioning all my life decisions:

— Why did I think I could paint?

— Why did I buy a 32-piece brush set when I only know how to use one?

— Why does my raccoon painting look more confident than I feel?

Then a neighbor walked by with their dog. They stopped. They looked at the canvas. The dog started barking. I’m 90% sure it was laughing too.

I considered throwing the whole thing away, but then I thought, “No. This is art. This is raw. This is… something.”

So I kept going. I added some random dots, a few angry swipes, and gave the raccoon a starry background. Now it looks like it’s on a cosmic adventure, mocking me from space.

And somehow, in that ridiculous, chaotic moment, I started laughing. The kind of laugh that turns into a full body shake, the kind that makes your neighbors worry about your mental stability.

Because really, isn’t this just life? You think you’re painting a masterpiece — a shining destiny full of clarity and purpose. You end up with a cosmic raccoon with a helmet and a smug grin.

But maybe that’s okay. Maybe we’re not here to create perfect constellations. Maybe we’re just here to show up with our cheap paint sets, try to make sense of the stars, and laugh when it all goes sideways.

So tonight, I’ll hang my raccoon masterpiece on the wall as a reminder: perfection is overrated, the universe has a weird sense of humor, and sometimes the best thing you can do is lean into the chaos and laugh so hard your soul feels a little lighter.

To everyone out there trying to paint their own stars tonight — may your raccoons be friendly, your brush strokes be bold, and your laughter echo into the cosmos.

We’re all just out here making weird, messy art out of our lives. And honestly? That might be the most beautiful thing of all.