September 04, 2007 - 1:45
My hands and feet are something that, no matter which way I look at it (objectively or drunk), I can scarcely find any semblance of beauty. The raw forms themselves are not so terrible, maybe even special if you romanticize sturdiness, but the truth is they're completely abused and broken.
Currently on my feet: rings of dried skin that look like the remains of hatched spider's sacks, where this weekend I rubbed the excess skin from two burst blisters on the insides of my feet- shreds of flesh on the bottom padding from pounding the pebbled pavement with water-softened feet- and a hardened disk ("corn?"), on my baby toe from wearing shoes that are too small. I think it will never go away. Also, a rare treat comes in the form of worn black toe polish on only ONE toe (the big ones). It's sort of lumpy and really distasteful. Basically I've just resigned myself to the notion of these appendages being all work horse no show pony.
However, in the same way that I derive pleasure from the base juxtaposition of my hairy armpit against a lace- bordered sleeve, I do sometimes like to see a delicate ring on my sturdier left finger.
My sister's feet are justified incorrectly where the toe meets the foot, curving towards her outsides.
I always liked the way this looks.