I am pulled by invisible strings. A (very handsome) puppet of the workflow, of capitalism, of our really shitty system. Yes, I do talk about the same three things all the time. Sue me.

Humiliation takes many forms. Subtle, small drafts that infiltrate into the cracks. A deadly virus, performing meticulous hastes into the dignity, breaking through the armour chinks.

Looking for a job is a full-time job.
Trying to create literary pieces, is a full-time job.
Having a healthy social life is a full-time job.
A full-time job is a full-time job.

All this without counting things like side projects, catch-up dinners, and plea meetings to achieve shadowing internships. I do each and every one of these things. It is not task juggling, it’s artistic entrepreneurship. I flipped life so much looking for the bright side that life started spinning as if it was the last twenty minutes of the duvet programme. The silver lining is a hoax.

Last week I had an online meeting, an online meeting for which I arrived late because I needed to commute back home on my bike. Not only did I arrive late, but I did it sweaty and tired. And usually, that’s not my power move for smashing meetings. I don’t think that is anyone’s power move, but people like, we have no choice.

My hands look horrible lately. When you work in hospitality, you sort of need to make peace with the idea of your hands are going to be forever ruined. Someone’s bum came onto me while I was holding a cup with boiling water, so the boiling water spilt all over my right hand. The next day, I was looking for something menial and dismissible, and someone moved the sliding door of the cupboard just enough to trap the fingers of my left hand in. I yelled. It was not as painful as it was shocking. My middle finger got destroyed.

Corns, fissures.
Calluses and cracks.
Corns and cracks.
Calluses that get smashed.

How do you want me to write, to stay fresh, to keep up the good work if I cannot physically type sometimes due to the state of my hands? I own awound that has not been healed properly due to the motion. Nasty sticking plasters relieve themselves in a blue cycle of plastic and nitrile gloves. My hands belong to a 57-year-old man who has been working with his hands all his life. My hands battle with the sharp steel and the scorching jugs. My hands move fast, stay up all day, wake up early and get dirty with ease.

My hands, many times, forget how to type.

Sometimes, even on the days I don’t have much to complain about, I cannot find the energy. It seems like I could be off the grid, I could be missing my operator, I could just be a little bit too different, too hard to classify, too odd to work with. I do exaggerate. I am a homosexual man with a Spanish passport. Drama and theatre are what make the world turn for me.

It’s hard for me to count my blessings sometimes. I am healthy, I am kind of hopeful, and I am a star in the making. I am not an exploited slave; I have not known war or misery. I am well aware of the layers of privilege I wear.

But how to keep believing in myself when I type with two index fingers branching out two disgusting hands? I don’t think I will ever forget what my hands have been through. My hands will forever keep the memory.

I have no choice but keep on going, typing, click-claking, with a random podcast or an underwhelming drag race episode in the background, trying not to look down towards my damaged hands.

I will forever try to take whatever is good, and run with it. Whatever was good in my hands.