You all heard the tale back in January of 2010. I spent the end of my 26th birthday in the emergency room, with twelve stitches, and one broken pinkie finger. My great friend, Matt Rockoff fed me cheeseburgers from McDonald's as a homeless woman cried next to us in the hospital. It was quite the eventful end to my birthday. Since that time, my pinkie has transformed from mutant, with no hope of recovery, to a little bit less than mutant, and falls somewhere in the permanently deformed, deranged category. It's been fifteen months since that fateful day, and one thing has remained the same...until now.
Every time that I go to get a manicure, I always have to get nine out of ten fingernails painted. (And, no. I do not get a discount). Each time it is the same ritual. The nail lady goes to paint my pinkie nail, looks away in horror when she sees the shape of my finger, and that it is lacking a real nail, as she hastily moves right along to my ring finger. For the first time in fifteen months, Sweetheart (my pinkie named by Meelz), was able to be painted, just like all of my other fingers. I have ten painted fingernails. And, even though the shape of Sweetheart is still deformed, and she doesn't quite look right...this really is Sweetheart's big day.
No comments:
Post a Comment