Worry beads

I have nervous fingers. They are always fidgeting - scratching at something, or damaging my cuticles beyond repair. So my mother has bought me a string of black worry beads. I like them. I like them a lot. They make my hands happy. Eight heavy black beads hang on a sturdy chain, interspersed with thirteen round metallic beads. The top of the chain is anchored to a small dog tag that bears the inscription "MINOS IMPORTED FOODS." However, my worry beads are not a food, which makes me wonder. I guess that Minos, whoever he is, branches out into side areas as well. I wonder if he sells daggers? I wouldn't mind a little dagger to store in the bottom of my purse and forget until I go through airport security, at which point I am reminded by the man at the screen over the conveyor belt whose eyes widen as he notices the distinct outline of a sharp object discreetly hidden below the checkbooks, Kleenex, and gum packets. Then, as I am hauled away and frisked, I can shout, "It's all Minos's fault!"

But seriously, I like my worry beads. My sister, Mercy, also has a set. Hers are blue. She also possesses nervous fingers, although she does not destroy her cuticles. Rather, she shreds paper towels. Our Mercy must always sit near a trash can, or a small pile of paper pieces collects, as though a hamster has been about.

I think the moral of this post is this: ... ...

Yes. You read correctly. There is no moral, only simple pleasure. I think that is enough.  ¶ 12:07 PM