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Okay, so nails. This is a story of nails. Not necessarily just mine, but it is a story of nails. Nails, the dead cells elongated at the tip of our fingers and toes. Nails, which I almost always cut in time. Nails. Okay, so nails.

I started cutting my own nails when I was in 7th grade. Before that mother was in charge. Hand nails’ cutting was a breeze. But when the toes would be up, I’ll take my face away from both the nails and mother towards the opposite direction and would cringe in advance for the nail that might cut too deep (which it never did). As soon as I started cutting my own, I started giving an arc a little too deep unintentionally. That resulted in the shortening of my nails’ length, which was a bummer since I liked long length nails (long as in the core part of the nail, not the one that increases and one has to cut regularly). I guess this previous line was a little presumptuous, I’m sorry for that.

I can’t stand a broken nail, it makes me want to run on the road, as far from it as possible, as though it had had a ghost living in it, and now that the nail is broken, has been unleashed. One of the reasons I wince at the sight of it is because I’ve never had a broken nail. So I guess, because I’ve my imagination to aid the ghost rumor more in the stretches of how much the pain would be, I shudder. I’ve seen my basketball teammates’ broken nails, mother’s, brother’s and I go Yuk! Eeew! silently in the mind, as I slowly manage to slip out of the scene.

Have you ever had a broken nail?

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