I will soon have no skin on my fingers

When I'm bored or nervous or when I write or read, but especially when I read, I tend to pick at the skin on my fingers, usually until they bleed. Then, when it gets crusty, I pick the scabs. Gross, I know. I've had this habit for as long as I can remember, and friendly coworkers have tried to get me to stop by telling me that I'll develop cancer because my cells have to keep reproducing themselves. Blarney.

The index fingers suffer exponentially more than the others, so much so that the skin on both of them right now is peeled all the way down to the first phlange (love that word). This is because I've been workin' workin' workin' this week, and (I just stopped to pick as I searched for a word) am feeling pretty good about what was once but is no longer the article that has been haunting me for three and a half years. Not much of that dang thing remains. Not much of my index fingers remains.