I can’t point my fingers. I don’t know what to do with my fingers so I pick them. I take razor sharp scissors and slice up my cuticles and pick and pick, down and down, until the flesh around my nail bed is permanent scar tissue and pink nail polish looks like I dipped my finger tips into a pool of pearl lacquer. So I keep my hands to myself. I shove them in my pockets and only wear one ring. I don’t know my finger size. I don’t know where to put my hands in a job interview. I don’t know if he feels the scarred up mess when he holds my hand in his coat pockets. I just hope they’re better in the morning so I can go at them again with a sharper, cooler knife.
Subway MapSubway Philosophy is about New York, culture, sex, publishing, memories, alcohol, or a combination of the above. Originally taken from drunken musings on the subway, it has evolved into something extraordinarily similar to most young blogs: which is to say, redundant, romantic, and woefully introspective.
Current Subway ReadingWhite Teeth