This morning I cut my nails. Such a categorical and interesting affirmation. I’m sure you want to know more. What did you expect? I can’t always be transcendentalist — I like using long words to give a false cultured image.
Excuse me for telling you about myself cutting my nails, but it would be worse telling you I don’t even do it. At least I do it alone at home; not like those excessively — and awfully — made-up women that cut their nails in the train. They drop them at your feet. Let’s legalize third-party euthanasia.
The thing is, if you’re going to do it in a public place, do it without being noticed. I’m sure you all know the nail-file handrails; handrails made of a black material that feels like a nail file. I think they are normal handrails covered with actual black files. Do we need them? No. Are they useful? Absolutely, if you want to get rid of the skin on your hands. Those women could find a nail-file handrail and walk next to them for perfect nails. Everyone will think they’re just holding on the handrail and not filing their nails with it.
But there’s something worse: the nail-file walls. They are made of concrete or any abrasive conglomerate. The bumpier the better. There were some in my school going down the stairs to the playground. Teachers didn’t need to tell us not to run; we loved our face and arms enough to slow down. They obviously didn’t need to tell us not to run on our way back to class.
I’m sorry; let’s go back to the main issue. I just wanted to warn you. Don’t ask me to open a can or to remove a sticker for you for the next couple of days.