Her fingernails were a prized asset of her hands.
They added the elegance she often lacked, but required maintenance she loathed.
The teenager retrieved her clippers and file.
“To manicure, or not to manicure?” She chuckled and turned on the flat screen TV. An hour went by. She still hadn’t touched her nails. She glanced at them, shrugged, and leaned back on her sofa.
She felt an itch in her nose and rubbed it. It didn’t go away.
She stuck her finger inside her nostril and dug around.
“OW!” She yanked her finger out, the tip was bright red.
“Seriously, right now?” She looked at the screen for a few seconds, then for something to plug up her nose until the next commercial break. She found a paper towel. Cramming and twisting it in, she believed the nose bleed would cease. At commercial, she forgot to check her state of affairs. Before she knew it, the show was back on. She felt a warmness on her upper lip. She removed the piece of paper towel and a mini river flowed down.
“Holy SHIT!” She ran to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror with tissues. She dabbed and packed one into her nasal cavity. Hoping, even praying, it would stop. She pinched near the bridge of her nose and waited. She eased the tissue out, approached the mirror, and peered in. Some blood had dried around the opening, and further back seemed to be coagulating. She gave a sigh of relief, and proceeded to use a fresh moistened tissue to wipe away the dried blood. She sniffed, an involuntary reflex, and felt warmness inside her nose again.
“Oh for Pete’s sake!” It was slow coming out, but still it came. She tried the method all over again. Then looked at the waste basket to see how much blood she’d lost. She counted seven tissues plus the paper towel.
“Next time, I’ll just cut my freaking fingernails.”
Upon one of my first #art explorations on Instagram, I observed there was a large number of ass selfies, some even video, leading me to believe those sharing were Twerking. If mastered, that search result isn’t too absurd. Not everyone can do it, and an abundance of rear meat helps, but anyone could learn or teach themselves.
As a kid, I always seemed to have a paddle ball around. Cheap ones given out as party favors. Others still cheap, but enough of an upgrade to allow actual game play without warping or string breakage. All in an assortment of colors and materials they were made from.
Cartoons like Rocko’s Modern Life made me want to challenge myself, even if the participant was one of Satan’s lackeys. There was a time I was probably even good at it.
Fast Forward to 2006.
For some reason, I took up the activity again. Perhaps to brush up on my hand and eye coordination or as a stress reliever. One thing that puzzled me, was how paddle ball never seemed that popular among kids in my youth or those I saw at the time. Yo-yos and Yo-Yo Balls were “cooler.” In some ways, one could do more, I remember there even being yo-yo specialists that toured schools demonstrating their talents and revealing the wonders. But just maybe not enough people gave paddle ball a chance.
Cue the above painting.
A recent viewing of André De Toth’s House of Wax presented a street performer using two paddle balls simultaneously. I was impressed, even if it took place in the 1950’s and was part of cheesy 3D utilization. I learned, a variation, Paddleball is a competitive sport. There’s even a National Paddleball Association.
As I write this, I’m tempted to pull one out or purchase a new one (whatever’s left is probably spent) and give it another go. Who knows? Maybe I can find a group to take up Paddleball and with enough practice find myself in the NPA.