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My fingers are too short

How am I supposed to produce great art with these useless, stubby digits? Every time I go to open a jar or throttle an assailant, I’m reminded of just how woefully inadequate they are. I yearn for the long, tapering fingers of a concert pianist, fingers that would be taken seriously curled grimly around a mug of espresso or stroking pointed facial hair, fingers that inspire and instill confidence. Instead, I’m left with these things. I can’t even bridge an octave on a full-size keyboard.

I’m envious, of course, of Nathan; his toes are pretty much the same length as my fingers, and the fingers themselves sprout from his palm impossibly tall and slender. He was trying to teach me to play barre chords the other day, and I noticed he has a whole other knuckle to spare on an F. When I play F, the tendons in my hand audibly creak as I stretch them to their physical limits. When I grip the guitar for a difficult fingering, the result would be laughable were the tiny hand in question not my own. It’s just not fair.

I picture myself lounging in Zoka’s wearing a serious expression, writing furiously on a yellow legal pad, taking the occasional sip from the black coffee on the table in front of me. If only the fingers clutching that pencil were a scant inch longer, the other patrons would think, “Man, that guy’s somebody! Look at the way he holds that pencil, like he’s really doing something with it! Black coffee too – a real artist.” As things sit now, it’s probably more like, “Fucking art school dropouts. He’s been nursing that same coffee for like an hour and a half. Get a job, freeloader!”

If you need me, I’ll be in my room shedding juicy tears for dreams that will never be, and wiping them away with my tiny, tiny thumbs.

Posted in Musings.

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