Monthly Archives: April 2011

Dear Fingertips

Dear Fingertips,

I’m not sure where to begin. We go way back, Fingertips. Way. Back. I know I haven’t always treated you well. In my lifetime I have burned you on hot baking pans, intentionally calloused you when learning to play guitar, drawn smiley faces on you, covered you in glue repeatedly, subjected you to countless stabbings all in the name of blood testing and probably slammed you in at least one door. I can understand why you might be upset with me.

Sure, times have been rough in the past, but I’ve tried to make life good for you despite our difficulties. I’ve bandaged you when you were hurt, cleaned you when you were dirty, kept you warm in the frigid winters of Virginia, Michigan and Texas and have attempted to keep you in the best condition possible without resorting to wrapping you in bubble wrap and packing peanuts.

Also, I’ve given you this little thing called life. Without my heart beating, lungs breathing and nerves firing, you would have suffocated a long time ago. In all reality, you should be thankful that you’re even alive to experience your fiftieth cardboard cut. Just think: without me and the rest of my body, you’d be dead.

It is on this note that I must ask one simple question: Considering all that I have done for you, why do you refuse to grip and hold items? I do not work in a pineapple factory, nor am I a Man in Black. I have fingerprints which should help you grip things. I even checked today to make sure my fingerprints hadn’t been worn away somehow. You seem quite healthy in all regards. Other than my left pinky, you are not deformed in any way, and even my pinky is only stuck in a slightly bent position.

You aren’t backward on my hands, you still have fingerprint texture, your muscles continue to work well, you haven’t been bitten by a rabid raccoon, so what gives? Why is every day of my life filled with instances of you dropping important items on the very hard floor beneath me? Why do my cell phone, my keys and my work name tag all slip out of your grip? Why are my friends forced to help me pick up things I have dropped multiple times during a short visit?

I feel there must be something more going on here. You seem perfectly healthy, so I can only imagine you have decided to go on strike. If this is the case, please let me know so I can deal with the situation accordingly. It is very inconsiderate for you to continue letting my personal items slip to the floor. I ask that you either shape up or send a list of your demands to me so we can come to some sort of agreement.

Thank you in advance.


Dear Easter Candy

Dear Easter Candy,

I am in the midst of a tumultuous love-hate relationship with you. I love your sweetness, your chocolate-covered goodness, your this-doesn’t-even-taste-that-good-but-it-reminds-me-of-my-childhood-and-I-can-only-get-it-during-the-Easter-season quality. I could speak for long minutes about my ability to eat an entire package of Whoppers Robin Eggs in three days (and I’m not referring to the puny milk cartons, either), about how Reese’s Eggs are ultimately better than any other Reese’s product found during any other time of the year, and about the fact that, though entirely disgusting, sometimes I just want a marshmallow-filled chocolate egg.

I love you quite a bit, Easter Candy. I don’t know if it’s because my mother always went to great lengths to ensure her children would go into diabetic comas come Easter evening by constructing elaborate baskets for us. It might be because my grandmother always, always, always bought large bags of SweeTarts Bunnies, Ducks and Chicks (which everyone knows are far superior to normal SweeTarts). It might even be because my various Sunday School teachers shoved altogether gross Easter candy at me on Resurrection Sunday (which really distracts from focusing on Christ, but that’s another issue entirely). I’m honestly not sure of the exact reason why I love you so much. When I ponder about this, all my brain is giving me is visions of my great-grandmother, really weird marshmallow candies and the aforementioned SweeTarts products, so I suppose I can chalk it up to nostalgia.

My love is clearly genetic. Just last night, my father told me that, “Your mother went into some sort of trance on the Easter aisle at Wal Mart and bought about twenty pounds of candy.” This indicates to me that I may never be entirely free from the affection I have for you, Easter Candy. Personally, I am unashamed in my love for you, and I don’t care how long it lasts.

However, despite the love I hold for you in my heart, there are two areas of my life that are not pleased with you and all of your sugary goodness: my waistline and my wallet. My waistline is not particularly appreciative of the fact that a peanut-butter-filled egg jumped into my hand as I walked through the grocery store last week. It is similarly dissatisfied with the ridiculous Easter Candy Feast I had about a month ago involving myself, three days, a Reese’s Egg, a bag of Cadbury Mini Eggs and a bag of Whoppers Robin Eggs. It has decided that you need to go.

My wallet is also throwing a fit. The fact that I cannot walk into any grocery store that sells you without donating at least a dollar to some sort of filled egg or rabbit is annoying my wallet quite a bit. And, I have to admit, it makes a good point.

It is for their sake, my waist and my wallet, that I feel we need to spend some time apart. I love you, as you know, but it isn’t entirely healthy for me to be around you all of the time. I must bid you a temporary adieu. It will be difficult, but it is necessary.

Thanks for all of the memories and lovely, sweet goodness.


P. S. If all goes well, we can arrange a secret meeting. This Sunday. At the Easter basket my mother has no doubt thrown together for me. Be there.

Dear Creepers

Dear Creepers,

Please leave my presence and creep on someone else. Better yet, give up your creeping for more socially acceptable hobbies such as racquetball or hopscotch.