Give these fingers a pen and a piece of paper and it’s more likely that you’ll end up with a poorly decaled paper airplane than a narrative. They’d rather cramp up holding someone else’s words than making their own. And their idea of a good time is more likely to involve permanent dirt under the nails or that pins-and-needles feeling from when I’ve fallen asleep on my arm than a graphite smear on the side of the pinky member.
My legs would rather dance than sit still long enough for a “two steps forward, one step back” tap dance on a keyboard. Those eyes up there prefer their relaxation in the shade to nearly anything they have to focus on. (Really they do. They’re asking for smoothies with the cute little umbrellas in them right now.) And that big blob of inefficient neurons yonder does not want any training in the rhetorical arts.
My name is Carrotsoda and I am not a writer.
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