I'm sitting here, at my keyboard, with a fresh cup of ice water. I'm trying to avoid writing a biology essay.

When I was getting my water, I had a thought about cups. Specifically, the cups that migrate into my room. First, I stagger up and down the stairs in search of cold water. The cup lands on my bedside table, where it stays until the cat's curiosity gets the better of her and she knocks it onto the floor. Then I fill it up again at the bathroom sink, and the cycle begins.

Now, my art desk sits very close by the nightstand. Painting, in all its sundry forms, requires water, and the cup on the nightstand is often full of the stuff.

The walk to the bathroom sink takes away from valuable painting time.

Thus, the poor cup on the nightstand gets covered in white acrylic and green watercolor, black India ink and gloppy rubber cement. I tend to let the water dry in the cup, which leaves rings of different colors descending down the interior and a fascinating collection of crud in the bottom. The cup becomes a permanent feature of the art desk.

Later, the cup may become a holder for pencils and scissors, or be filled with pencil shavings. Whatever its next use, the cup will never be drunk from again.

I'm currently slurping the last of the water from the bottom of a cup beside the keyboard. I think that I might take it upstairs with me.