The Finger

It had been awhile. Three years to be exact. Jim hadn’t seen Gregory is three whole years. I mean, he had seen him several times through various photos that he had been tagged in on Facebook, but Facebook doesn’t count. He had missed his friend.

At one point they were as a close as his index and middle finger. Unfortunately it seemed as if the the hand to which they were attached in this analogy had formed a peace sign. No, he thought, its like one of the fingers was cut off, put in a box and sent to North Carolina to live with a new hand and forgot to call or text the hand it had grown up with. Its not even like that finger had an excuse because it literally only takes one finger to text the other hand or even just one of the original fingers. Like, I get that it may have been challenging to send a text with one finger, but one text in three years is not much to ask for. What a stupid fucking finger, stupid fucking middle finger, Jim thought.

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The Writer

Well, he had done it. He had finished his first short story and was seconds away from posting it on Tumblr. He moved his curser down to the lower right hand corner of the white box he had opened to pen his first post. The tiny black arrow transformed to a small white glove as it glided over the blue, “Post,” button. By pressing down he would change his life forever. He would no longer be an unemployed college graduate, no, he would become a writer. He feared that his new career as a master of the written word would take time away from his other responsibilities.

How would he find the time to come up with new material as a part time Twitter comedian?

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