A man bowed to me behind the cubicles at work today, and I knew why-the least subtle thing of all. It wasn’t love, or religion, an argument for the better of the two, furniture that looks like it’s been ripped from your fingernails. Long for rolls of bathwater, creases in black pants, a pink bra draped over the keyboard on the floor. I put my laundry off like any decent person with handfuls of conversations about life support systems. Takes just enough to find one shirt to wear until closing time.
Posted by caroline at April 4, 2006 3:04 AMWhat *does* furniture ripped from your fingernails look like? Inquiring minds want to know.
Posted by: Edmorus at April 4, 2006 12:42 PMBLOODY LINT BALLS EXCESS GROWTH FUZZ AND BLOOD.
Then we died.
Posted by: caroline at April 4, 2006 12:53 PMEdmorous Salons (Inc.) would like to suggest... a manicure. Proprietor Edita Stupick says, "It's fabulous!"
P.S.: Even in J.C.'s song, there is nothing about dying from furniture ripped from your fingernails. Though I'd like to see him try to rhyme that.
hahaha!
He would rhyme nails with rails, naturally.
Posted by: caroline at April 5, 2006 1:51 PMoh, brillliant!
whoever said I wasn't a song writer (I don't think anyone actually DID, but anyway), was SO wrong.
Or sails. Or trails. Or snails (particularly gruesome death, that). Or flails (eh? eh? artistic touch, there!). Or entrails.
http://poetryfoundation.org/features/feature.onculture.html?id=177975
(read this)
Posted by: danni at April 14, 2006 10:33 AM