I’ve been too busy to cut my fingernails. And at times too busy to wash my hands, so under my fingernails gets all black.
But how busy can you be that you can’t wash your hands, you might ask, that is disgusting.
Hygiene isn’t easy for everyone. And fingerfoods are the best ones.
But don’t you shower also, you might ask.
And you have a girlfriend, you will ask.
Yeah, I don’t get it either.
So how have you been so busy, you will proceed to wonder.
I get it, you’re on the hootch, you think to yourself.
Never touch the stuff. Let’s change topics.
What do you do most on the internet, you ask.
I follow about forty-five blogs, and of the five that post regularly, two are readable. And sports.
How often do you cut your fingernails, you ask pryingly, and where do you do it.
In the corner of my room, whenever I deem them too long to eat rice with my hands.
How did you get so cynical, you ask.
About fingernail hygiene or life? I don’t know, ask my parents, or the church, or the five elections in seven years, or the authors I follow.
Does every piece of writing need to have a point, you ask yourself, then myself.
I wonder that often. And if I write one without a point, does that make it poorly written, or is it possible that a reader can come up with a message themselves? Because I often write a piece, reread it later on down the road, and it means something new, and I can’t figure out what I originally meant.
Tough one, you will say.
Good writing maybe doesn’t exist, but good reading does. The subjectivity of it all is striking.
Like writing about fingernails, you suggest.
Like writing about fingernails. I love it, it could be seen as without purpose, but I see something behind it.
Fingernails are just as worthy as the sunsets in famous poetry, you say.
Or words about war, or talk about political campaigns, I say. What do you say?
I say that what you say is right, you say.