The Nail Clipping

Lo and behold, this blog is back where it all began.

The summer before my sophomore year of college (that would be the summer of 2009) this blog began in the dregs of my father’s place of employment. I was (am) a poor college student in need of serious summer cash, and completing mindless data entry was the means to my much needed end. It was in that very remote, dark, lonesome, and temperature temperamental office that I began this blog with the story (I believe) of a woman in a bathroom stall and her heinous navy blue shoes.

This blog has come a long way since then, but today it returns to the site of its birth. Alas, this entry comes from a new cubicle (my version of hell on earth) and not from the grand ‘ol back room, but that doesn’t matter. Every time I return to this office, I am convinced I will have a story to tell.

Enter scene: I am shown where I will be working for the month. It is a cubicle. DEFINITELY a cubicle. Computer in one corner, gray rug-like walls on three sides (half of the fourth), slightly over-used desk chair, and locked cabinets. What I hear is this was the cubicle of “Ed”. He just up and left, though, so now it’s mine. Hmm, I wonder why…

Not exactly, but you get the idea

The only thing on the walls is a tacked-up “contact list” with the extensions of the people in the office I will be transferring calls to as I simultaneously enter data…again. After the initial absorption of the dull and melodramatic world I am living in, I sit down and wait for my boss to come back and fill me in on what I will be doing.

My eyes glaze over the walls again as my mind drifts off to thoughts of other things I could be doing. In an unfocused daze, I suddenly snap to attention. What, in God’s name, is stuck to this furry wall of death? As I lean in closer to get a more precise look (completely disregarding the fact my boss could walk back in at any second) horror writhes through my body and sends a tingle down my spine as I realize what it is that has latched itself onto the wall.

A fingernail. A perfectly clipped (or perfectly ripped), slightly yellowing, fingernail. I want to vomit, but I choke it back down because this cubicle is lacking a trash can. Who the hell was this Ed person? Did he fancy a fine clipping before starting his day? Or was his last testament to the company a smattering of his putrid nails? A twisted and nonsensical “F you” to the company he left behind? Perhaps he had a nail clipper made by the cannon people from the circus that projectiles your nail clippings? Whatever it was, I do not want to turn around and see little shavings of nails scampering up and down the walls of the cubicle I already hate enough by itself.

I didn't know directions were needed...

So, it is now almost 8 hours later and the nail is still attached to the wall. No way am I touching it. I don’t get grossed out easily, but for some reason nails always get me. I’ll keep you all updated on how long it manages to cling onto the wall. I’ll tell ya one thing, though. If I find any nail particles in my hair… I’m suing.


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