As she plunged the sharp edge between the acrylic and the natural, the fleeting second of pain I felt masked itself in a fleeting sense of liberation, unmasking. My eyes floated from one hand to the other, from artificial beauty to natural imperfection. The scares left from my attempt at obtaining digital perfection undulated quite like ocean waves within my nail beds. So much so that the salt I've been yearning to taste on my lips, the sound of the dark hypnotic noise from November was in that room with me.
Buckling my seatbelt and pulling into traffic reminiscent of the frogger game I could play until the Apple 2GS needed a break, I noticed that my habit of demolishing my cuticles when deep in thought was back. As instantly as it had left at the seemingly small price of $40, it was back.
As I do, in times alone, I found myself mulling over how appropriate this superficial representation of not so superficial events was. I found myself thinking about removing all attempts at perfection and marinating for awhile in the imperfections that define my character. In my habitual tendencies to over think and find meaning in moments otherwise insignificant. How I run, like a child toward a moon bounce to my good friend, Walt Whitman at the end of a long day, or week, or months upon months. My inability to take music lightly and my incomprehensible annoyance with those that do. The way my phone rings and I find delight in the discretion I maintain to answer or to listen, in it's entirety, to the ring tone I so carefully crafted.
Perhaps the toxic fumes and my not having the luxury of a mask as the employees do were to blame for this moment of clarity born out of mundane errands. Perhaps, something serendipitous all together. Regardless, I am thankful. Faults galore, step right up and watch her delight in her shortcomings. Her shortcomings that were crafted for her and her alone.
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