Pinky Finger

The years of pressure and writing assignments have taken their toll. A once smooth surface has succumbed to the inevitable effect of work. It is the bane of a left handed experience. Our writing style cripples us to the point of a painstakingly miniscule deformity. He is the collector of all my writing. He passes over every letter blurring them together. He is the callused pinky finger. He is the rejected, small, insignificant, finger cast to the end of my hand. And his revenge is sweet. Most noticeable after a test, he relishes in his makeup. The inky pen is his favorite, carefully highlighting every one of his markings and spreading onto the palm of my hand. Each fold in my hand embellished. What an unlovely surprise! When the pen is not available he resigns to the pencil. Here he becomes creative. So creative in fact that my work often resembles the adored art of a five month old. Complete with smudge marks on various words and distinct impressions of a pinky lining in the left margin. Thus is his attempt at finger art. Woe be the day to any reader that I use marker. The colors much prefer sticking to my hand than the paper. For the remainder of the day I am left with the telltale story of my art journey. The right pinky never caused so many problems. She in her writer-less world is devoid of markings. Devoid of the makeup splattered across her pair. Of the coarse skin rubbed tight in one central location. They are opposites. The plain is beautiful and the colorful is ugly. Such is the way of the left handed pinky. The years of pressure and writing assignments have taken their toll. A once smooth surface has succumbed to the inevitable effect of work. It is the bane of a left handed experience. Our writing style cripples us to the point of a painstakingly miniscule deformity. He is the collector of all my writing. He passes over every letter blurring them together. He is the callused pinky finger. He is the rejected, small, insignificant, finger cast to the end of my hand. And his revenge is sweet. Most noticeable after a test, he relishes in his makeup. The inky pen is his favorite, carefully highlighting every one of his markings and spreading onto the palm of my hand. Each fold in my hand embellished. What an unlovely surprise! When the pen is not available he resigns to the pencil. Here he becomes creative. So creative in fact that my work often resembles the adored art of a five month old. Complete with smudge marks on various words and distinct impressions of a pinky lining in the left margin. Thus is his attempt at finger art. Woe be the day to any reader that I use marker. The colors much prefer sticking to my hand than the paper. For the remainder of the day I am left with the telltale story of my art journey. The right pinky never caused so many problems. She in her writer-less world is devoid of markings. Devoid of the makeup splattered across her pair. Of the coarse skin rubbed tight in one central location. They are opposites. The plain is beautiful and the colorful is ugly. Such is the way of the left handed pinky.