Tonight Ange and I were driving around town when I noticed this string hanging off my glove.
I hate strings.
They drive me nuts.
So of course, I pulled it. I tried to do it so neatly so it would just come off and stop bothering me and nothing would go wrong.
Things always go wrong when they involve strings.
I immediately sent the picture to my mom along with a "Whoops. I accidentally pulled a string."
My mom hates when I pull strings.
When I was little I was always pulling strings. And my mom was always getting mad. Mostly because they ended up like the above picture.
And then one day? I pulled a string on my tights and to my surprise it ripped all the way around my leg and the lower half of my tight fell down to the ground. Whoops. Mom was way pissed about that one. But also? Secretly feeling all sorts of hysterical laughter.
Tonight we were texting back and forth about why I shouldn't have pulled the string on my glove. And she said "Strings are your kryptonite." She's totally right. I am weak where strings are concerned. Even though it overwhelmingly ends up like the above I always hope that it won't. That I will pull the string and it will come off and it won't leave a hole and I won't be bothered by the string anymore. That rarely happens. But still I pull. I srsly can't help myself. The string just calls my name. It BEGS me to pull it. I obsess over the string. Obsess until I can't take it anymore. And then I pull it. Most of the time that is a major failure in my plan. Every once in a while it works out. It's kind of like a gambling addiction. I keep thinking I'm going to win. But usually I just end up with a hole in my clothes or perhaps even a cut on my finger (true story: one time I tried to pull a string off the upholstery of my car and it sliced my finger open). My mom always asks me why I don't cut the strings. As if I carry scissors around with me all the time. As if I am patient enough to wait. Or motivated enough to go get the scissors. A quick tug is so much easier.