I'm not really a vain person. I'm sometimes a catty person - why wear Crocs when there so many other more comfortable, appropriate shoes out there? - but not vain. I am aware that habits such as nail-biting are perceived poorly in business. Running around wit bleeding stumps on the ends of your stumps isn't considered stylist, either. I'm trying to stop, for the 8th time this year. Laugh all you want, but you have no idea how much I really love... chewing my cuticles.
If I was so happy, you might ask, why give up such a good thing? Well, would you want to shake paws with princesses bearing bleeding cuticle stumps? There is something about all of those staph and HIV stories that has made some people a bit touchy about this sort of thing.
I consider myself a real princess, and real princesses don't smoke, drink, or do drugs. Yet every girl needs a vice, and cuticles are quite useless. I want to smite them; they beg to be destroyed. Cuticles always forget to bring the wine to dinner parties, and they don't even vote. If you are dating a cuticle, you will definitely be sleeping in the wet spot.
Should I ever be so unlucky as to be malnourished someday, and my brain can only either a) feed the leftover scraps of protein from my Red Cross TV dinner to my hair or b) feed same to my cuticles, the proper choice is clear: off with my cuticles. Need I put this in my living will?
Let's consider the many benefits of cuticle chewing:
1. Cuticles are fat-free. By the time you get done chewing the cuticle, I'm sure you have expended any calories they might contain. Think of cuticles as being lettuce made out of people. 2. I never need to go to the grocery store to stock up on cuticles. I always have them right on hand (ba dum bump).
3. Ziploc bags are never required to take cuticles on the road should I need to do some really deep thinking.
4. Cuticles require no condiments to taste great, although you might want to avoid highly scented soaps.
5. They're free: no cost, taxes, or shipping.
What's more, they deserve to die.
You see, my cuticles are really quite awful. Unlike the obedient, pink cuticles of other princesses, my cuticles don't respond to gentle nudging after a warm bath. Quite frankly, my cuticles balk like mules. They scoff at potions claiming to remove cuticles and swarm wildly like feral cats that can never be herded. My cuticles trash-talk; they dare me to bring on the pain. Left to their own devices, I am certain they would spread like kudzu. If I don't do something about my cuticles, I know that I will awaken one morning to find they have grown several feet overnight.
Normally, I would just chew them. It's cheap, fast, and fun. Chew, chew, chew. Oh, the simple pleasure of finding a juicy hangnail during a tedious conference call! Unlike smoking, there is no monkey on my back demanding a cuticle break. I can chew whenever and wherever I want, and can even type while chewing if needed. A real princess has this sort of delicate coordination.
I still think about chewing, though. I think about it a lot. It's so hard not do it.
When I need to look presentable to the commoners for big meetings or interviews, I go to nail salons whose employees speak a language I don't understand. It's better that way. When they see me coming, the nice ladies who work at the salon get a can of something strong from the back room. Between you and I, I think it might be leftover Agent Orange. I don't ask, and they don't tell. I may be growing a tail from the exposure. Am I a nice or naughty princess if my cuticle remover comes from a can emblazoned with a skull and crossbones? That's what it takes to bludgen my cuticles into submission.
The nail ladies fight over who gets to work on someone else. I don't blame them. The cuticles scream like lobsters in a pot when they go down, and believe me, they always go down fighting. Injuries are common.
Don't feel sorry for my cuticles, though. The bitches had it coming.
