When I look at my hands, I see tiny scars and broken fingernails. My nail polish isn't a cool color, and most of it chipped off a week ago. Nobody will fall in love with me for my hands. As I sit down to play the piano, though, I remember why it's all worth it.
P.S. I still won't forgive you, though, Aaron Gibson, for recklessly swinging about your hockey stick in gym class and leaving a permanent mark on my knuckle. Unless, of course, you and your foreign accent have grown up to be dashing and gorgeous. If that's the case, scar call me anytime.
P.P.S. Should I put my GrandCentral number on my contact page? Is that weird? Will you leave me adorable messages when I'm too afraid to answer your calls?