Me and My Gloves


Fingers keep fingers warm. That’s their code, their creed. It’s the way they live their lives, their goddamn birthright. So don’t fuck with it.

You know who you are.

Pop quiz: what happens when you separate earth, wind, water, fire, and heart? I think you already know: Captain Planet dies. That’s what you get when you meddle with oneness — you vanquish a hero. Hope you like global warming.

You honestly think fingers are any different? They’re self-interested, you say… “they’ve got their own fingernails to worry about.” Fuck that. They’re heat-seeking teams of five bound by one wrist — and you better believe they have each other’s backs.

Yeah, keeping them apart in tight, dark caves of solitude… that sounds like a good idea.

A hand divided is no hand at all… So, gloves, I have something to tell you. And I won’t say it again: get the fuck off my fingers.

That’s right, I’m tired of your bullshit. From now on, I’m keeping them in my goddamn pockets. At least that way they’ll have some company.

“What are you gonna do if you have to actually use them?” Good question… Hint: it rhymes with “kittens.”

Yup, you heard me the first time. I’m replacing your starfish-resembling ass with mittens.

It may take me longer to dial a number or defuse a bomb. They may not have your style or superstar appeal. For all I know they might make me a social outcast. But if that’s the price I have to pay to keep my fingers cozy the old-fashioned way — by sticking together no matter what — then by God I’ll do it, no questions asked. It’s not about being “cool,” sir, it’s about being warm. Better luck next time.




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