Catching Idle Butterflies

Walking fingers

I have no idea what to write today.

So, I’m merely going to let my fingers to the talking:

. . .

Hmm. Great. Even they are at a loss. I stare at the keyboard, waiting, and they just sit there at home-row, waiting for me to tell them what to do.

Dang fingers. Can’t they ever take the initiative once in a while? Why do they always have to depend on me?

Perhaps I should try my toes. Maybe they’re more ambitious.

. . .

They say no. They like being in the warm, dark of my stinky tennis shoes. What weirdos, my toes! (Okay, I really had no intention of rhyming there).

Elbows? No, they too are content, and they tell me they can’t type anyway.

Hair? Too wimpy. They don’t have the strength to press a single key.

Knees? Too snobbish. They figure coming up with something to say is also my job, it’s theirs to keep me from walking foolishly. Hmm. They need to work on that, I think. I’ve been known to stumble now and then.

I ask my other body parts, and they all answer the same. “That’s not my job!” Sheesh, you’d think they belonged to a union or something!

So what now?

. . .

I’ll give it a day or two. Perhaps then my brain will do what it’s supposed to do and give me ideas!

Dang brain.