You know what I hate?
I hate it when you turn on the water to heat up before your shower and when stick your hand in the hot water, you feel this sharp pain in your thumb and you yank your hand back and flap it in the air for a few moments (nature's pain killer) as you try to remember how on earth you managed to injure the tip of your thumb, but when you look down at your hand you notice that all of your nails have been chewed to the quick and you think, "Did I do that?" and then you realize that Yes. You did that.
And then you climb in the shower and, once again forgetting your injuries, stick both hands into the hot water and yelp a little.
I quit biting my nails YEARS ago when I was a kid and I used to bite them and SWALLOW THEM and I got sick one night and threw up a stomach full of nail clippings all over the bathroom floor. I shit you not.
Since then, I've been an occasional Stress Biter (and also a Drunken Antsy Biter) but mostly I like to think I keep the germ-infested ringworm breeding grounds staunchly OUT of my mouth at all times.
Apparently I bit the holy living christ out of my finger nails on Sunday as I was editing my mortifying (but kinda funny if you're a literature nerd. or a pervert.) video for British Lit, which took a total of about 8 hours to make (oddly, the filming took about 15 minutes and the damn "works cited" sheet took the other 7 hours and 45 minutes), and which I was rather nervous about broadcasting in a room full of my peers.
So because I was horrified to show this to 20 (probably dozing) students in my class, OF COURSE I'm now putting it on the internet. That's the next logical step, right?
Anyway, so I'm in the shower trying to remember when I bit my nails and then the thought occurs to me that I must have put the damn shredded half-moons of protein somewhere, but I can't for the life of me remember throwing them away.
And then I remember. I put them in my pocket. IN MY POCKET.
I was all cozy on the couch and I had my ear buds nestled in so I could hear my video and Landers was snuggled up on my lap and I didn't want to get up to dispose of my disgusting, shameful hoof shavings, but I wasn't about to just throw them on the floor all willy nilly because, WHAT KIND OF ANIMAL DO YOU THINK I AM, and so I put them in my pocket.
The pocket of my pajama pants.
The pajama pants that are now folded up and patiently waiting in the bottom drawer for the next time I decide to sleep with pants on.
I'm wondering if this is as bad or worse than flicking boogers in the night to avoid getting up for a tissue? Cause I've, you know, heard that some people do that. Ahem.