Door Handles

I have absolutely no idea what I did to incur the wrath of door handles. I always considered the door handles at home as beautiful specimens of the species and firmly believe I treated them with due respect.

But now I feel that the hatred that door handles have of me has been strengthening its roots for a long time now, and has begun directing all sorts of door handles against me.

It all started on a dull grey Tuesday with me accidentally locking my mother outside, in the balcony, when I was two. I almost repeated the incident when I was three, but this time it involved me sitting inside a locked car, playing with some "random" car keys, while my poor mother desperately kept on trying the door handle.

Then, when I was four, my family shifted to a new house, and all the doors had door locks, along with the dreaded door handles. They were all correctly placed and worked perfectly fine, except for the door lock and door handle of my bathroom door, which had somehow managed to place themselves the wrong way, making them exceptionally hard to manipulate.

I should have known then that door handles and I were not going to be the best of chums.

But I never really realized this until the school trip last year, where I locked myself inside a bathroom (the door handle refused to budge), broke a door handle simply by touching it (I swear to all the gods I believe in that I simply laid one solitary finger on it) and made an entire door rattle violently simply by stepping near it (...). I also have faint recollections of being an active participant in the in the destruction of yet another door handle, but as I am not quite sure of the exact details, I shall not dwell on it any further.

The cupboard containing my clothes has been through its share of suffering as well... my father had to force the door handle back into place with a hammer.

Two weeks ago, I succeeded in completely parting a door handle from its door. I had just turned the door handle when it came off in my hand.

And now the door handle of the front door is showing weaknesses in mechanism.

I'm scared.

  

PS: Maybe it's not just door handles, but doors too. Not to mention the fact that I positively suck at knock-knock jokes.

Plastic Surgery

If some evil, bald megalomaniac with spindly fingers and cracked fingernails and no eyebrows and nostrils like Voldemort and electric-blue eyes ever wanted to kidnap me, I'd probably go ahead and let him do it. I mean, he might perform some plastic surgery on me! And I wouldn't mind, provided he wears latex gloves and a surgical mask to spare my eyes from the terrifying sight that his needle-sharp teeth would be. Not to mention the horrendous gold-plated one. *shiver*

Let me tell you a secret. I actually specifically want him to kidnap me and distort my facial features. Not all of them, just one. Any guesses? My nose? Maybe silicon cheeks for extra springiness? Or my lips, for ensured cheesiness? Nope. I'd rather have him lay his marvelous albeit ugly hands on my ears and let his fingers do the talking. Yes, that's right, my ears.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with them. But then there's absolutely nothing amazing about them either. They're just perfectly normal ears. And something about that bugs me. Even though I can't see them properly myself, even in a mirror.

So, I've been thinking what to do about them. There were a few things that came to mind:

(A) Get huge, flapping elephant ears to keep myself cool in the summer.

(B) Reduce them to the size of a gnat's ears- but no, that would definitely impair my hearing- how would I be able to eavesdrop on the latest gossip or plug in earphones anymore? (Imagine- no Justin Bieber. I would die in a day.)

(C) Maybe have the megalomaniac sprinkle growth-aiding agents over my ears and in a week, they'll be covered with hair and no one will be able to see them. I thought a lot about that one, but then I realized that it's just too disturbing for some to stomach.

But then, I thought some more, and I realized the answer already lay in my heart, ready to be picked up and dusted off. The answer had probably soaked into my consciousness a long while back, when I indulged myself in sci-fi novels and the like. I realized that I wanted ears that were long and pointed at the ends. Like the pixies' ears in Harry Potter, and Elvish ears in Lord of the Rings, and Spock's ears in Star Trek. And then I realized, oh my bookshelves, I'm such a geek. And a nerd. But then I realized, so what? There's nothing wrong in that. And after coming to that realization, I realized, I have never heard of a geek undergoing plastic surgery. It's always beautiful persons trying to enhance their appearances or those with extremely low self-esteem.  (During the course of the rant, I also realized that I realize way too much stuff)

Where do I fit? In neither category.

So perhaps no evil, bald megalomaniac with spindly fingers and cracked fingernails and no eyebrows and nostrils like Voldemort and electric-blue eyes is ever going to kidnap me. The possibilities of a megalomaniac with blood-red eyes kidnapping me are quite low as well.

Oh my gods, I can't believe that my beautiful dreams floated away like a poofy cloud which is about to vanish with a poof! in the few minutes that it took for me to write this. So basically, all that is never going to happen, and I just wasted 3, or was it 4 minutes, of your life telling you all about my hopeless dream. Thank you for wasting your time.