Coke Nail: A Journal To Learn From
I usually trim my nails, oh, every two weeks or so. For some reason I forgot to clip the pinky nail and that clinched the deal; I might as well grow a cocaine nail.
After an office meeting I blurted to my coworker, "Hey, so I'm growing a coke nail." I showed her my progress and she laughed and laughed, covered her mouth, and laughed some more. She then told me about how I reminded her of a woman cabbie she had who said that Mariah Carey would be more popular if she invested in a good pant suit.
You know how you recreationally pick your nose with your pinky? You know, in private? I can't do that anymore. Nor wiggle-scratch the interior of my left ear. Nor adjust myself "down there." I'm surprised people who legitimately grow these nails sacrifice months of simple pleasures for a few hours / minutes / seconds of bliss?
But aren't you doing the same thing, only without the reward of snorting cocaine?
Touche. And shut up.
I used to be a chronic nail biter. I've really curbed the desire, but damn that nail is looking like a mirage of a t-bone steak. Patti would like nothing more than for me to get rid of it because it's "gross." I'm no quitter. If this is the marriage deal-breaker then so be it.
"Yours is longer than mine," Patti said.
My hairstylist told me that hair and nails grow at the same rate. This is the third time she's told me this, so I can only imagine my nail must look freakishly long.
Every time I am forced to shake someone's hand I have nightmares that it will end in tragedy.
A month since the last entry, really? Huh. I guess the longer you have a coke nail, the more tolerant you become.
The amount of nail growth in the past month seems to be minimal. I did notice today that the nail took a non-linear, kind of warping path. It's resembles less of a shovel and more of a Frito.
I've made an important decision. I've decided to cut off the coke nail. I look forward to sex again and typing without error.