My fingernails and I have a long and complicated history. Actually, it really isn't that complicated - I used to bite them viciously, then I bit them casually, then I stopped biting them altogether, then I decided to start grooming them. Like, you know, a normal person.

Yesterday, for the first time in over a decade (I think), I intentionally cut them short. SHORT. Like, they don't reach to my fingertips. SHORT.

This has had a drastic impact on my life so far. I can no longer scratch myself satisfactorily. Picking at pimples, which had once been a guilty pleasure, is now a chore. And forget drumming bitchily on a deli counter while I'm waiting for my change.

It's only half as terrible as it could be, though, because I've only butchered the tips of my left hand. Because, you see, I have finally followed a temptation that has niggled at the back of my mind for about 5 years - last night, I went to my first class at the New York City Guitar School. Guitar for Absolute Beginners. That's me.

So far, so good. Learned two chords. And by "learned," I mean, "heard about." Brought a rented guitar home last night - man, nothing like walking through the city with an axe strapped to your back. Felt like a rock star. Until I almost lost my balance on the subway stairs. (Whatevs. I'll just pretend I'm tripping on goofballs.)

We shall see where this goes. Ultimately, I'd like to pick up enough skill to compose and play simple melodies for my lyrics. Realistically, it's entirely possible this guitar will end up in the same pile as the keyboard I got for my 10th birthday, the harmonica I loved for one month in eighth grade, and the kazoo I purchased from a gorgeous, tattooed candy-shoppe owner in St. John's. Not to mention the shakers and spoons. And the tambourine I stole somewhere.

Yeah, I know. I could have a pretty cool folk band going, if I could just make three or four invisible friends.

Got my first real 6-string
(rented, but for now, it's mine)
played until the cats all howled
was the summer of 2009 . . .


completely insensitive reporting of a child's birthday party

My boyfriend's 11-year-old nephew: What is this, what the fuck . . .
Boyfriend: You mean fudge. Chocolate fudge.
Fat kid: What? Chocolate fudge? You have chocolate fudge?
Nephew: (with incredible look of contempt and annoyance) Aw, FUCK,
whadja mention fudge for, now he's gonna want some . . .


All content ©ChiaraScura Productions/Renata B, unless otherwise stated. All rights reserved. Violation of federal copyright laws may result in serious legal repercussions such as fines, criminal charges and a shitstorm of biblical proportions. Let's play nice.