the man with the talking hand


Sometimes I look just like I did when I was two. This wouldn’t be a bad thing if I were two. Or ten. But I’m 28 and trying to be stunning and gorgeous and not look like a frog.

It’s this expression I have when I can’t believe what I’m hearing and wouldn’t be interested even if I could.

I wore it in all my grade school portraits when the photographer tried to make me smile by ad libbing a conversation between a stuffed rabbit and his hand; and I wore it the other evening at dinner party when my hostess, an aspiring (i.e. never wrote a thing in her life) author broke out a ‘Ten Steps To Writing a Successful Novel’ list which she comprised herself and which consisted of things like ‘never write commercially or you’ll never leave anything behind’ and ‘never be an American because they’re just not that literate’.

I’m not a rude person, but sometimes, when I really can’t believe what I’m hearing, I look like a frog. I can’t help it.

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