Feeling: eversoslightlybitter
Listening to: Dispatch - Drive
Reading/Watching: nothing

Patience is just not one of my virtues.

Months back, June-ish, I squished my index finger while unfolding Bri's wheelchair. It snapped open too quickly and I stood there quietly, biting my lip, fingertip trapped between two metal bars, until I could speak softly and evenly enough to ask someone to help me to open up the chair locks, please.

My fingernail bruised, and a large bloody chunk of my cuticle was taken off. There's still a wide semi-circle that spans the bottom half of my nailbed, and the skin is still receded from where it should be. The dead portion is irregularly shaped, yellowish-white, and ugly.

Part of me wishes the nail had just fallen off altogether. That would actually be much easier to handle than waiting and waiting for it to grow out until I can clip it off. As long as it's there, it's just sitting there, and it's ugly, and it's like one of those ribbons people would tie around their fingers as reminders, before God invented daily planners.

I really am not fond of reminders. Because they used to make me sad, but now they just piss me off. I don't look at that and go, "oh, it's a mark on my fingernail."

I look at it and think, "I slammed my finger in your wheelchair for you, bitch, and now you've decided to exile me from your little kingdom for consorting with past outlaws. Good luck finding someone else who'd volunteer to pick you up from a doctor's appointment and drive you 45 minutes back home." And see? I told myself I wouldn't get bitter. But I did.

Comments? 2 so far...
Not a Diaryland member? Sign the Guestbook.