Bruises

I'm good, no, better than that, at a lot of things. At others, I suck. Everything is all or nothing with me. Lets take painting my nails as an example (cause I'm attempting to apply nail polish as I write this vastly imaginative post). No matter how slow, precise, careful, patient, whatever, it makes no difference, the polish ends up blurring until I may as well have dipped my entire fingertips into the pot of polish. Then I'll knock one, and in my haste to save it, knock another to another. It's a domino effect. Finishing looking like a page from some ADD kid's colouring-in book, everything's outside the lines. Wash hands manicly. Start over.

Never hire me as a waitress. I'm hell at that too. Carrying full plates or cups there's always a thick trail of drops behind me. Actually, that comes under my balance in general, which is shaky at best.

Sexually, I can't get into hand jobs. My own and for other people. The angle is always wrong, my wrist gets bored immediately and wants to go on strike, the rythym gets all fucky as I daydream or start watching the TV in the background. In my breathless, soft-focus pastel la la days of virginity, I'd use it to keep my panties on and the penis (like a dangerous animal you never turn your back on) where I could see it.

I did have a motive, but at least I used to try. Now If I have an inkling that I won't ace something, I don't bother trying. I'm not sure if that's realistic or fatalistic. But either way, it won't change my mind. Stubborn, that's one thing I'm good at.