My father told me to stop leaving half-empty beers around the house: “It’s 48 dollars a case, the least you can do is finish it.” I’m like that with cigarettes, too: halfway down the stick, and I’m burned out (but they’re not). I even keep two ashtrays, one for the sad, shrivelled, definitively burned-out butts; the other for the halfsies, the failed attempts, the ones with a few drags left.
Today I tore the nail on my right ring finger and started paring down the others to match, but halfway through I lost steam, or got sidetracked, or thought of something else. Now the nails on my right hand are cut close to the flesh, while the left hand… didn’t get the memo about what the right was doing. Can I tell everyone I’m a guitar player?
It’s like a bad joke, or a bad metaphor for, like, our modern condition and… stuff. Or like a scene from Benjamin Kunkel’s novel, Indecision– a great book, but I never finished it.