Saturday, September 27, 2008

The Soft Pink Hands of the Parasitic Class.

When I was a manual laborer my hands had a thick ochre rind on their palms. Honestly, I could have made a few bucks by having guitar picks or spectacle frames carved from the horn on my hands every couple of weeks. When I grew frustrated with the idiot ape politcking of those around me I could take a shipping pallet out into the back alley and wring it like it was a fucking washcloth, reduce it to splinters inside of five minutes -- no martial arts, just brute animal strength and a willingness to accept abrasions, punctures and the breakage of small bones -- and then stroll back onto the work floor thoroughly refreshed.

Now my hands are soft and pink. White-collar hands. But I just noticed that I have... well, you can't call it a callus. But there's a thickened patch of transparent skin on the base of the pad of my right thumb.

It's from hitting the space bar.

I'd like to think this means I'm still a worker.

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