It’s fairly obvious that I am at most times a walking mess of neurosis. Sometimes it gets to me but most of the time I just figure everybody has some sort of cross on their shoulders, some are just a bit more open about it than others. And really, it’s the ones who are all private and steeped in denial that we should be worried about, not those of us who wear are baggage with pride. Most recently I have been battling my finger nails. Yup. See, I can’t bare for anything to touch my finger tips. It likely stems from a cat food can incident when I was about ten and I ended up slicing my thumb tip almost all the way through the bone. To this day I have no feeling in the end of my right opposing digit. But despite the lack of neural senses, or perhaps because of it, I don’t like things lingering on or near my fingertips. Finger pads, that usually works, but stay the hell away from my tips, dammit. In turn this means my nails must always be super short so as not to attract any dust underneath or create that small crevice between nail and tip where there could likely be the remote possibility of some kind of sensation at the end of my digits. Just the thought of it makes me want to climb the walls.

As a result of all this drama I keep a minimum of five nail clippers in the house at all times, this ensures that I can clip my cumbersome nails anytime and anywhere. But somehow mid to late last week they all went missing. I tore the house apart looking for them. I even took to interrogating the older children, perhaps going so far as outright accusing them of contributing to my phobias in an effort to drive me over the edge for good. Yes, I get the solution to this situation would be to make a trip tot he store. I did. many. Unfortunately I also suffer from a horrendous lack of short term memory. Anyhoo, by today things had reached an all time boiler situation in my nail department. It had gotten so bad that I was only able to function with my hands rolled up in fists as I constantly questioned/berated the household members about the damn clippers when finally tonight I searched a drawer I had previously emptied. Lo and behold, there they were. So happy was I that I crumpled to the ground and trimmed all the offensive growths from both my hands and feet. The relief is simply overwhelming. I deeply suspect one of the children, if not all three of them in a group effort, hid the clippers just to see how far I would go before I cracked. And here’s the answer to that one, if the clippers didn’t show by tomorrow I was planning to sell them off in reverse order of their ages.