I Am the Fingers

So, I quit my job.

Probably shouldn’t sound so cocky now that I’m unemployed. But how cool is it to start a blog with that sentence?

So, I quit my job.

See… you want to read more. Except now that I’m gone, I won’t be interacting with all the craziness I’d usually encounter, and thus, no great stories for you. At least not about parking lot turkeys and pictures of cartoon mice intercourse up at my desk.  It’ll just have to be me and my own meandering thoughts about life, occasionally interrupted by my boyfriend, who I’ll lovingly refer to as Batman. I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of that. Not that he minds me using his name but I have a weird thing with outing identities—at least here, in this blog. Not that you’d know him if you saw him. Unless you live in the area and see the pictures I post, in which case, go away. I don’t like stalkers. Unless you’re my new friends with money… then we can talk. But still in a public place. And I’ll choose.  But anyway, I’m not sure what it is, but I don’t like (and probably won’t be) using people’s names. I’m weird like that. So boyfriend will be Batman and my dear friend who’s helping with this blog, my Mrs. Whatever. Because she helps me with stuff and does whatever she needs to. And good friends like that deserve a title.

My mother, my sister, everyone else… we’ll get to them. When something happens—and it usually does—I can talk about it here. With you. All of you. Or no one. It could just be me and that’s fine because I’m an awesome audience. I never boo or heckle—it’s rude—and if I’m falling asleep, I don’t snore. So, win there. But then again, how could I be boring? If you’ve never met me, first—I’m so sorry and second—congratulations! Your life has just improved. Actually, it probably hasn’t but you can’t say anything back because right now you’re just a pair of eyes instead of lips. And I am the fingers. See me type! Again, because you’re the eyes, which I’m sure are just lovely.

See, I don’t even know what that means. About “I am the fingers.” I know what it means because I thought it, but as soon as I typed it, I imagine me with little finger limbs being rejected by a village of Thumbelina’s peers. Because my brain goes in super weird places like all the time. And I try to describe how the world is this somewhat fucked up cartoon in my head and no one gets it. Some do. Those odd balls I’ll most likely be talking about here but the rest, those normies…. they don’t get it. They’re too Barbie and I’m the wishing troll trying to break into the dream house. And if I was one of my old wishing trolls, I’d probably be bald. Because I cut off all their hair. Including all my Barbies.

Don’t ask.

At least Batman loves me, despite all my weirdness. Although he does look at me from time to time like he’s trying to kill me with his Jedi mind powers. I know this because he tells me. And I’ve told him to be careful because he’d feel like an asshole if he actually did it. Besides having to move my body and deal with paying rent, like, what would you tell people? The first thing you did with your Jedi powers is crush your girlfriend’s heart? Or in my case, ovaries. He always tries to crush my ovaries. And, now that I think about it, what have I done so wrong that merits crushed ovaries? I need to talk to him about this.  There’s no reason for ovary crushing. Sending the remote control flying into the kitchen—I get this. But internal bleeding? Come on, man. Not cool.

It’s not like I can fight back. I never got my letter to Hogwarts and so, no trip to Ollivander’s for me. But I still practice just in case. And mostly in my mind. I never use the three curses—it’s illegal—but Accio cookie! Or Lumos! whenever Batman shuts off all the lights when I leave the bathroom. It never works, which doesn’t make me think I’m not a witch, but an ill trained one. I’m sure I could’ve passed my OWLs with flying colors but I guess we’ll never know. We’ll just assume.

And I wouldn’t fight back even if I could. Because that’s wrong. And besides, my spell would probably rebound and go terribly wrong like Luna Lovegood’s mother. I’d end up imploding my own organs and I’d feel bad leaving Batman the cleanup. He didn’t do anything wrong. Except try to mentally kill me. But what boyfriend doesn’t do that? He tells me it’s because he loves me that he wants to strangle me a little bit. Says something about it being healthy. I’m not really sure. He could be lying. But I don’t really pay attention. I’m too busy thinking about people made of finger limbs and the other important matters of the world. Someone has to.

Anyway, I quit my job. So I have more time to think and write. And type.

Because I am the fingers.

Welcome, eyes.