Those of you who follow me on Twitter– yes, I have a Twitter, I’m a bird after all– perhaps recently have seen the story of my Satin Hands:
(read backwards! Twitter is weird)
(read forwards now! Twitter is down)
A mystery, perhaps? Strange and bizarre. Pour a tipple of sencha green tea and kick back for our story:
PART ONE
I was in fact trapped at a Mary Kay party. I’ve no troubles with Mary Kay or cosmetics in particular; I was just there to help a friend carry some victuals for the partiers. Yet within mere moments of entrance, I was not entranced so much as ensconced, whisked away back to the bathing-room and instructed forthwith to slather my hands with gels and creams, origin unknown~
PART TWO
Actually, it was pretty nice. Satin lips followed! THEY FELT LIKE A FRESH BABY’S BOTTOM
PART THREE
Time passes. My human interactions become… smoother. I find myself navigating the social niceties with aplomb. Then… DUAL TRAGEDY. First, having received as a gift at a formal fête a tea cup of Japan, I raised it forthwith to gaze upon. Satin is as satin does, and it slipped like jelly RIGHT OUT OF MY GRASP shattering into ONE HUNDRED MILLION PIECES three of which were pretty big on the floor!
The formally-attired clan about me began spontaneously to sing “Amazing Grace.” Excerpt below:
As a single tear rolled down my cheek, I accepted finally my fate. NO TEACUP… and no more satin hands.
PART FOUR
The second tragedy: I washed my hands.
Then started to rough ‘em up with daily applications of clay soil, dime store desicants, and extremely dry… things. Now Satin Hands are Sandpaper Hands.
I can hold ceramics just fine.
In a brutally empty, lonely universe.
