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I'm little, red headed mess, more hair than mass or sense. All I really want to do is make something magical and show the world and have it be proud of me.

Saturday, 9 May 2009

pia-pia-piano piano piano.

Discrimination against piano players with disformed hands? I think so.

Oh, why oh why did my mother not get chicken pox when she was five, like I did? She got them at thirty-five years old. A thirty -five year old chicken pox lady. Did I mention she was pregnant? Oh, yeah, I was that little foetus that got effected by her chicken pox. Damn chicken pox. Because I've been left with two less fingers and half a bone in my arm. I can't write well and it hurts when it gets cold. Lots.

Through infant school I was the half lizard girl who wondered around on her own and wouldn't speak to anyone. I was actually just shy, and no one would really speak to me, so I just stopped bothering. In Junior school, the coolest girl from the *cool gang* said my hand was "well cool" (we were seven, our vocabulary only reached as far as "cool") and then I too was cool.

There are so many instuments I can't play, I got asked to give up violin because my wrist couldn't take the *heaviness* of the bow and my piano teacher wasn't so kind. I kept on with the piano, got extra merit for my *disability*

I can't play my favorite song. My favorite song. It's infuriating. Theres a G that I can't reach. Damnit. I hate the piano.

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