i hate this 6 weeks
i spend ungodly amounts of time lamenting the fact that i hate my hands and wish god had graced me with ones better suited for my needs.
i'll start by saying that if anything its my index fingers that first come to mind, and then the actual proportions of it as well as the way certain fingers move and how the hands are quite the opposite of uniform as my right hand being endowed with thicker fingers than my left.
all of this bothers me because i believe hands are essential to how you view the world and how you are percieved by others through touch.
when your finger know the things you hold well and wrap about things in certain ways you feel a certain sense of control of your direction.
when they flounder it seems like you are cut off from exhistence.
you can never shake your own hand.
you never feel your hand on your own cheek.
and the way the fingers curl and feel dismembered as the have segments severed from them frustrates me.
i hate looking at them yet i find myself analyzing the way people hold things, the way these little workers exhist as a part of you, apart of you.
i'm an intensly self doubting, self-center, negative, and self-concious being.
if anything i feel ashamed somewhat of my hands.
yet they are mine and i should go on.
fuck geneology
you onion fuck
fuck incomplete thoughts
all like this one.
silence please
no one reads the lips of those who sing in the corner.
why bother?
i'll start by saying that if anything its my index fingers that first come to mind, and then the actual proportions of it as well as the way certain fingers move and how the hands are quite the opposite of uniform as my right hand being endowed with thicker fingers than my left.
all of this bothers me because i believe hands are essential to how you view the world and how you are percieved by others through touch.
when your finger know the things you hold well and wrap about things in certain ways you feel a certain sense of control of your direction.
when they flounder it seems like you are cut off from exhistence.
you can never shake your own hand.
you never feel your hand on your own cheek.
and the way the fingers curl and feel dismembered as the have segments severed from them frustrates me.
i hate looking at them yet i find myself analyzing the way people hold things, the way these little workers exhist as a part of you, apart of you.
i'm an intensly self doubting, self-center, negative, and self-concious being.
if anything i feel ashamed somewhat of my hands.
yet they are mine and i should go on.
fuck geneology
you onion fuck
fuck incomplete thoughts
all like this one.
silence please
no one reads the lips of those who sing in the corner.
why bother?