Blog psh more like Blurbing.

I believe this is going to be an ongoing thing. These are pieces of writing, thoughts and just little things I've been thinking about.

Cinco de mayo

"I can confidently say that I, sir am nothing." spoke the bespeckled man across an aged mahogany desk.

“How can you be nothing, Mr. Marth? I have two working, eyes I can see you.” argued a suited man on the other side of the mahogany desk that the point was being made across. Tall and balding, Mr. Suppers was quite the opposite of Mr. Marth’s petite and pointed structure. Staring intently, Mr. Suppers waited for an answer from his opponent. Condescendingly, he let out a “huh” as long fingers danced across the desk.

“All I mean is that I have no category. I am neither hero, nor villain”

“Then why are you here” Mr. Suppers asked almost immediately in a way that sounded and meant like ‘Get the hell out of my office,’ words he did not speak. Instead he, tactfully added “Sir this is an agency for the ‘gifted’ and If you are not, I don’t think we have need for you,” The way he said it, gifted, was malicious, jealous even like they had something that he didn’t , like he was a cat chasing his supernatural mouse.

“I’m sorry I wasted your time, I just thought that, - maybe you needed someone- er like me” With this final sentence Mr. Marth rose to his feet, a whopping 5 feet and three inches, took his hat from the desk and made way to the door.

“Mr. Marth, wait.” Said Mr. Suppers, rising to his feet, “What did you mean? ‘People like you?’”

Turning back to the man before him Mr. Marth penetrated him with his eyes, a glint of disbelief buried deep in brown eyes.

“When I said I was nothing you should have believed me.” As soon as the last word fled his pink tongue, did he disappear into a cloud of what seemed to be water vapor.

“Damn it, Mr. Marth” Mr. Suppers spoke to himself, seating himself again in defeat. He then proceeded to fix his crooked pink tie.

Late April.

"So after a year of being made fun of for not knowing anything about Hillary Clinton I decided to Google her. It turns out that her ankles are not as huge as I thought; maybe she went on weight watchers or became friends with Jenny Craig.

LATE FEBUARY.

The stripes that covered the rug were methodical, almost eerie. Now it may have just been their uniformity or the fact that stripes had never sat just right with the blond headed girl. The Crumpling of the papers clenched in her petite hands was accidental. Maybe another nervous habit was evolving. My papers, wonderful, she scolded herself. How am I supposed to show Mr. Hopp these? She scolded once more, attempting to salvage the slightly crumpled resume and various other pieces of material to aide in her job search.

Late ‘07

Picking away at the layers of skin around my fingers; perfection is only a tear away. Skimming the surface of the once undamaged fingernails the wall tack scratches the nail as it glides across the see through surface. Nervous habit turned addiction; the wall tack sits beside the keyboard waiting to rip flesh from thin fingers. At school, at home, about thirty minutes a day is set aside for this task. Why I seem to go insane without something to prod at my long fingers.

Perfection, the habit all started when I began to seek perfection in my fingernails by trimming them with nail clips instead of harsh, uneven teeth. Well the nail clips had a sharp tool that is supposed to be used for cuticles, and needless to say, instead if cuticles I used it to shove back and tear uneven skin around my fingernails.

I’m sure it’s just a simple habit albeit one that leaves my fingers barren and cut ridden and exposed to the many bacteria of the world.