Struggles of a Nail-Biter.

I am a nail biter. I learned from watching my mother bite hers and having my Poppa scold us both. In my youth, it was a bad habit; now, a method of relieving anxiety or stress or its a sign that I’m thinking too much. A recent drive to work while listening to the news changed all that. They claimed that a man died due to biting his nails and therefore giving himself some weird disease. Since I have a lot of things I have to do and places I want to go and people I need to meet, I am not ready to die, especially from something as boring as biting my nails. I’ve tried things like using terrible nail polish but that just makes me scowl in disgust and therefore puts me in a bad mood. I’ve tried expensive manicures, but I just feel bad when I mess them up. So now I’m trying press on nails. I like them better than the glue on nails for two reasons: first, I’m terrible at putting the glue on the nail and more often than not it ends up on my wrist or my jeans; second, they hurt when break off. Press ons work better because they don’t hurt and I don’t bite them. 

There are things that I can’t do though, despite filing these nails down and trying to forget that I’m wearing them.
For example, I can’t type as fast as I usually do.
I can’t grab things because it feels weird to have nails pressing in to my palm. 
At work, its different to hold a pen.
I can’t grab a stack of plates because it bends my fingers strangely and my nails break. 

I’m now the girl who says “Uggh, I broke my nail.” You can’t do farm work with these. Does it matter that I’m not even close to doing farm work? No. All that matters is that if I hypothetically wanted to go help out on a far, I couldn’t do it right now because of these nails. 
It’s a learning curve. I’m sure there’s a life lesson in here somewhere. 

Don’t bite your fingernails, World. 
All my love, 
Sarah

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