Barista Fingers

     It's amazing. Since I've stopped making coffee, my nails have gotten ridiculously long. See? That's really me in the picture, and those are my real nails. Less than a month, man, that's all it took.

     I'm messing with you, those are just internet nails. Mine are only like half as long as that.

     But seriously. How do these people do basic tasks? If you can't pick up a fork to eat your food, either you've gotta just dip your face in your dinner or get somebody else to feed you. You couldn't dress or undress on your own. You wouldn't be able to go to the bathroom alone. Honestly, that's where I'd draw the line. Plus they'd be heavy, and in the way, and a hazard in the bedroom, and extremely painful if they got caught on anything, which is more than likely considering their size.

     Anyway... I'm thinking now that I've got my nails back, (claws, more like--I feel like Cruella Deville) maybe I'll do something with them. Like paint them, I mean, not set a new Guinness World Record, don't worry.

     Imagine being a writer with extremely long nails. You couldn't type or hold a pencil. But maybe you could dip the tips of your nails in ink like a quill, and drag them across the paper to try and form letters...? Who knows.

     I certainly don't intend to find out. Instead I'll paint up my nails real nice and Instagram a picture of me holding a cup of Starbucks for you guys. Like this one.

     But in all seriousness, I miss my corpsified barista fingers... We used to level the shots with our fingers, so as the coffee collected in my festering barista wounds, coffee brewed in my skin for my whole 8-hour shift. No amount of hand-washing could clean them completely, leaving my hands smelling deliciously of espresso the rest of the day.