It is perhaps unfortunate that two decades ago, my parents chose to gift me with the name Tara and raise me in Illinois, where the flat midwestern accent renders my name indistinguishable from the word "terror." I have, ever since, endeavored to live up to my namesake, and by age two succeeded in causing all the hair on my father's head to fall out. Inspired by this early success, I then engaged in a variety of activities, such as flying gliders, crashing into yellow fire hydrants, and taunting miniature tigers, all calculated to turn every hair on my mother's head a bright and snowy white. Unfortunately, my mother, curse her, rendered my progress immeasurable through small amounts of hair-dye, and I was forced to give it up as an exercise in futility. Thus, in the summer of 2005, I found myself at loose ends and was conscripted by said parents for so-called "honest work," i.e. washing dishes, vacuuming floors and cleaning up my room.

The first two tasks were not particularly onerous, as we posses a dishwasher and Sir Sucks-A-Lot, our trusty and highly efficient vacuum cleaner, but, as my room rather resembles the Augean Stables, I was forced to flee in terror. After a good eight-mile-sprint, I fetched up by my old middle school, and was thus reminded of an ancient contract I had signed in blood in this very institution.

In an ancient era referred to as "the eighth grade," I had the privilege of falling under the tutelage of one Ms. Bull, Art Teacher Fantisimo, who introduced me to some old friends of hers: Canvas and Acrylic Paint. Her friends and I got along famously, and after several weeks managed to produce a splendid piece of artwork entitled "Spilt Milk," which went on to win first prize in the school art competition. Unfortunately, fame and fortune has its price, for at the end of the year, Ms. Bull reminded me that Canvas and Acrylic Paint were her friends, and she should be lonely without them. And I, poor innocent eighth grader that I was, protested that they were my friends, too, and besides, they were on my painting. Ms. Bull, immediately suggested a compromise. We could share- she would keep her friends- and the painting they were attached to- until she retired, after which they were all mine. "And how long until you retire?" I squeaked. "Ten years." she replied.

Naturally, I required a contract, signed and sealed with a drop of our heart's blood. After ten years have passed, I can go and redeem it. Ten years is a rather long time, so when I, with five years to go, leaned against the school wall in the early summer of 2005, I began thinking larcenous thoughts, which, unfortunately, were thwarted when I discovered that they lock schools for the summer.

In any case, I was inspired to go home and paint once again- an intention that lasted until I discovered all of my acrylic paint tubes had dried up into desiccated lumps. After an aborted experiment in creating a mosaic of acrylic paint chips, I sat down at my computer, opened Internet Explorer and Adobe Photoshop, and amused myself reading web comics and painting little horns and goatees on pictures of my brother. One thing led to another, and now I am proud to present A Ready Wit, my first semi-serious foray into the arts since eighth grade. I rather like the result.