My hands are dry and cracked.

On my ring finger I have a ring my mother gave to me, but it always reminds me of Julia. It's a rune that represents artistic talent and all that good stuff.

My pinky is merely just a little growth on my hand that serves no purpose. I'd say in about a thousand years, pinkies will become nonexistent through evolution...except for guitarists that fingerpick.

My fingernails have those white spots on them, a calcium definciency or something. Cuts above them from hitting the bass strings the wrong way and papercuts from my notebooks.

My hands are freezing cold. Picking up the bass after a day of not playing is difficult if it's cold outside. "Blood is the body's oil." I have the blood just no circulation.

My hands change colors. Not like a chamelon's or something (laughing to myself a little). In the winter, especially at school where it's 30 degrees in every class, they're often borderline tan and blue. I'm ashamed to shake hand with people, let alone hold your hand because I can only imagine how unfortable it is.

Right now on my middle finger is the remnants of the nail polish you put on my fingernail. I've been chipping away at it all week. I figure that when I finish chipping it away it'll be time to see you again.

And my most prized posessions. On my middle finger, a large red blister, formed last Wednsday. Accompannying that one is a lighter, not red, blister on the index finger. And usual you can see a little patch of dead skin on the side of my thumb, worn away from slapping the E-string.

I've never felt like a better bassist, or a more secluded boyfriend.