It makes my skin crawl, it really does. Annoys the hell outta me. Why can’t he do it in the privacy of his bathroom? That’s what I wanna know. Of course, if I actually asked him that he’d get all defensive and ask me to remind him who exactly it is that’s driving me to school like this every weekday morning. He could at least have the decorum to wait until he’s dropped me off, but no. No, dad has to pick his fingernails while we crawl through the traffic.
Every morning it’s the same; one hand on the steering wheel, fingers fully extended, the other hand carefully plucking all sorts of disgusting detritus from underneath the nail. I try to ignore it; staring out the window, thinking about the day’s lessons, picturing that girl in my Classics class…but there’s no use. The knowledge that he is ceaselessly performing that same ritual of personal hygiene remains nauseating, even if I can’t see it.
Urgh. Are we there yet?
Solidarity, brothers & sisters…✞