I hate my left arm. I don’t know if it’s lazy of if the right one is just sneaky, like a coworker that offers to help you with your work but is secretly slowly stealing your job from you. I try to get the left one involved, I give him small tasks like holding a spoon but he always fucks it up. Even the no brainer jobs such as carrying grocery bags. I disburse the bags evenly between the two but I’ll look down half way home and the right one has four bags and ole lefty is just swinging in the wind. I am grateful to have him, I think, I mean, I would really hate to lose him. Losing an arm is a funny way to put dismemberment.
“Hey, how did you lose your arm?”
“Well, let’s see now. I know I had it Wednesday because I remember folding laundry. Shit, you know what, somewhere between Wednesday night and the weekend.”
I guess I never understood why people ask you how you lost something, if I knew where I lost something then it’s not really lost, is it?
If I ever did “lose” my arm, I would have it stuffed like I hunted it and mount it over my fireplace in the game room. I would spread the fingers full bloom like a wild turkey tail and my other gentlemen friends in their smoking jackets would inquire about the great arm safari I was on. If my place was more contemporary I would do something zaney like use it as a leg for a night stand. An arm leg.
I would definitely not get the regular prosthetic arm everyone else gets, the one that lies across your body and makes it look like you might start marching or serve a table at a fancy restaurant. Unless I want the comfort of always being in the ready position to hold a coat or cut time off of checking my watch, I would design my own new arm. I think I would design it so it was up and behind my head, like I just got out of a hammock. “man, conn is always so relaxed looking, how does he do it?” Or, I would have my arm sticking straight out with the palm up, always saying “hello.” The hello is a multipurpose position, easy for giving middle fives, saying, “hey, stop” walking through push to open doors, greeting Indians. The main feature I would give my prosthetic arm would be a muscle, since apparently my left arm can’t produce one of those. The worst part of slowly becoming unidextrous is the constant bickering between arms. The right arm always calling the left a “pussy” and the left arm coming back with, “technically you act like a pussy more than I do.”