This was a homework assignment when I took a Creative Writing 101 course.
We had to pick something we hated (or loved) and write about why we hate it, as if we’re talking to someone. You might notice I’m ranting…
I could probably use a few more
hours days to work on this, but I’ll post it now anyway because– it’s already past midnight and I need to sleep. So feel free to point out any awkwardness or places that need corrections, I’ll hopefully notice them when I re-read this at some point.
P.S: This didn’t have a title, being a homework assignment and all, so I just went with the first thing that popped in my head. It might change…
You may feel free to share, repost, or comment, but please do not steal my words or take credit for them. Thank you. © Alison Juste
By Alison Juste
The body can suffer numerous injuries, from dislocated joints or broken bones to internal bleeding. None of them pleasant, each as painful as the next (not to mention the needles used in the treatment of said injuries). But in every day life, there is one kind of overwhelmingly present, laser sharp, prickling pain that renders anything involving water a road to endless suffering: paper cuts.
Paper cuts are quite possibly the tiniest, stupidest, yet bitchiest “wound” you can inflict on yourself. Despite their name, they don’t happen just from paper, but rather all paper-like products of relatively similar width, such as envelopes, cardboard, or boxes. You never see them coming, and you can never, ever avoid them. A minute of inadvertence causes days of agony. Paper cuts are abominations. They’re like the buzzing mosquito at night that won’t stop flying around your ear, taunting you, daring you to have a go, only to turn on the light and notice a fresh bite. Paper cuts burn and sting, whether you accidentally graze them or simply wash your hands.
Note that these paper cuts – devilish spawns, really – always find themselves where it hurts the most. 99% of the time, they’re always on your hands (hats off for anywhere else), precisely on your fingers. But not the fat part of the finger or closest to your palm. No, these despicable fiends find your weak points and strike, slashing you around the nails, where skin is thin, fragile and insanely sensitive (and bleeds easily), or smack in the middle of a knuckle, so that every time you so much as twitch, the fresh stinging reminds you not to take this war wound so casually.
Yet no matter how much you try to cut them out of your life, you’re undoubtedly doomed to have a moment of forgetfulness, or being in a rush, in which the near-fatal wound encounters become more of a battle with sly, mundane weapons that sneak-attack. You can never win! Cursing usually follows, sometimes licking the cut seems to make it go away, but the pain indicates otherwise. And when the pain finally subsides until you forget you ever suffered through hell, the damn paper finds a way to mark you again, like it owns you!
Isn’t it amazing that this common wound afflicts all of us, regardless of age, sex, race, status, workplace, etc? We’re constantly at war. Why does no one notice the paper is out to get revenge for the trees? Every house is filled with dangerous weapons! And if the trees are in on it, we’ll have to start watching where we walk (the furthest from trees), and if we don’t do something the trees will take over the planet, and we’ll have to cut them down and ensure our survival! A waste of wood that is, so we just turn them into paper. And the evil cycle continues.