The better trap

bet, better, bettest

So, you’ve come back to feed at my codswallop trough, have you? Good, good.

This week I went to The Cloisters to visit my favorite demon, and I’m happy to report that he’s looking impish as ever. I also got waylaid by the teeny-tiny Book of Hours— did you know a book could be so wee? I’m desperate to make one for myself (not for prayers, but for hefty nonsense, words to live by) so I can thrust it in a deep pocket, tromp around the city, and worry it between my index and my thumb. When I haven’t got a Book of Hours (which, historically, has been always; I’ve never had a Book of Hours), I wind up worrying the pad of my index against the pad of my thumb, and at this point I’ve fairly worked them down to nubs. My thumb in particular is quite unhappy with this state of affairs, and rightly so. No longer merely opposable, this thumb is now thoroughly opposed, and has become the leader of la résistance.

Enough about me: what of you? As always, you can sing your laments into my digital ear, anonymously, here.

This week’s column is about nails. No, no, that’s not right: it’s about selves, better or otherwise.

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Dear Sofia,
I have dormant neck pain that acts up at night and I am unable to fall asleep cause of it, and also cause of it I am unable to be the better version of myself I envisioned to be…

Thanks for reading!

If you smiled (if you even so much as twitched), know that my security cameras are pointed at you from a hundred different angles and I will be reviewing the footage. But you could spare me the trouble by simply (sigh) liking this post, or tappity-babbity-ing the buttons below. <3