Shaving off the edges
Shaving off the edges.
Sometimes I tell myself I'm just shaving off the edges, saving myself some time… it's not precisely wrong, I just want to get it over with faster.
Like when it's my turn to mop the floor, and I'm just swishing the mop over the floor — whoosh, whoosh, whoosh! — it's for my housemates to see, it's not cleaning, it's not mopping, it's more like simply wetting the floor a little. Dad would probably call it "tickling the germs".
So I shave off the edges, I don't tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I tell the truth but it's hedged. "You're late! Where are you?" and I say, "I'm on the way," which is kinda true, except I'm sitting on the doorstep lacing up my sports shoes. "On the way", indeed.
Shaving off the edges can be kinda dangerous coz you reduce your floorspace, y'know? And if you're not careful it's gonna be like in the cartoons, when Sylvester the cat is sawing off a limb and Tweety is looking at him, just waiting for the moment when the limb is sawn through and Sylvester hangs in thin air for that split second before falling to earth with a thump. Because he's on the wrong end of the limb.
Am I on the wrong end of the limb? Shucks yes, quite probably, because every untruth, half-truth or what-have-you comes back to haunt me. I'll admit many of them haven't bit me in the behind yet but then I keep looking over my shoulder coz I'm expecting 'em to creep up on me. They're sneaky that way, you know.
Plus when you shave off the edges you tend to leave traces behind... all that sawdust. You can sweep it up, but the wind blows some of it away. You can vacuum it, but then the vacuum cleaner falls apart, and a pile of sawdust dumps onto the carpet. You can put it in a bag, but the bag springs a leak and it trickles out — leaving a nice trail, almost as if it were determined to follow you and stick onto you no matter what. Really reminds me of all those cartoons.
But I'm so used to it. It's almost second nature now. Can't sit still without shaving off the edges. So fidgety, so used to the easy way out. Tried to throw out my file, but it was hardly out of the window before I pounced on it again. That was so dangerous — luckily we were only on the first floor, so I didn't fall too hard. Next time I only threw it into the next room, and the time after that I started throwing it into the wastepaper basket for easy retrieval.
Wish someone would snatch it outta my hand, but then, I'd refuse to let go, so that wouldn't do any good. Yet I can't seem to throw it away. What am I going to do now? I'm still shaving off the edges and I'm scared that I'm gonna run out of floorspace and tumble into a well-deserved cell. Not that I ain't already in a cell of my own making...
(This is a writing exercise in partnership with Owen)