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Old March 11th 05, 01:45 PM
Psychopath
 
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Default Psychotic bitch on the go

I didn't hide the fingernail clippers. Proof of this? Well, it's
everywhere.

I meant to hide them, though. I should admit that outright.

I'm usually quite effective in the business of removing them from his
immediate environment. I'll slide by the counter and whisk them
stealthily into my palm or up my sleeve as I pass, then find them a
casual, unintentional-seeming hiding place. A Band-Aid box which they
might have simply fallen into, the very back of a drawer where they
could have been lost for ages.

Or the trash bin, again, into which they simply fell. And then, of
course, were quickly recycled.

This doesn't stop him, however, from buying more. Somewhere between his
interrogative monologue (to which I reply, of course, "You must have
misplaced them,") and the next mad clipping frenzy, we'll acquire
possibly three to five more of the things. Perhaps their souls are
returning to haunt me--I really can't be sure.

What I do know is this: I will inevitably find him hunched over with
brow furrowed, snipping the nails on his big manly paw-hands down to
nearly nothing. The way he does it horrifies me to no end. He trims and
trims, only satisfied once no white remains above the bloodline.

He might be seated on the bed or the toilet, at the dinner table, but
one thing remains constant:

Wherever he is, he's nowhere near a garbage can.

We don't live outdoors, and the clippings he sends flying in every
direction aren't about to biodegrade themselves into the carpet or
linoleum. Instead, they linger; proud remains of his venture standing
tall to stab me in the foot as I tiptoe into bed at night, marching
neatly across the breakfast table to make me gag as I serve him
raspberry and banana crepes.

Today, since I forgot to hide the clippers at first sight of their
ominous gleam, the hard little dirt-stained translucent fragments
surrounded me, peering up from every possible surface.

The kitchen counter, then the breakfast table, then the rustic storage
chest we use as a coffee table in the living room.

It was exactly the path I took, and I began to wonder whether they
might be following me. I cleared them one-by-one from each place,
lifting them with my hands since they refused to just be swept away.

Exactly, I might add, what I feel like doing when I first awaken at
6:30 in the morning.

Nevertheless, I make him breakfast, and when he prances in wet and
naked from his shower, skipping around the room, I ask him about his
little manicure session.

"How did you know?" he queried in actual surprise.

"They were everywhere. Everywhere. On top of the remote control for the
stereo. On the wooden arm of the chair....."

I continued, but I'll spare you.

"I didn't want to make you upset," he offered. "I knew you'd just
cleaned. I didn't know where to do it."

"So you decided to spread them around a bit for me to find like in an
Easter egg hunt?"

"So I started over there in the kitchen, and then I guess I moved over
there, and then...." He listed about ten spots in the house in total.

In the end, he'd just clipped his nails everywhere.

Everywhere, that is, but over a trash can.

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