Saturday morning, I stopped by my favorite nail salon. The damage I'd done with the garbage disposal last night was beyond anything I could fix. My cuticles were a wreck, there were cuts on my fingers, and it would take a hell of a lot more than cutting and filing to get my manicure looking good again.
I'd been coming here every week for years, and I considered my nail tech, Crystal, a friend. For nearly a decade, I'd sat in her chair for an hour once a week and talked to her like drunks do to bartenders. She knew everything there was to know about me, including my obsession with changing polish colors throughout the week, and my attempted rendezvouses with pundanda. She thought the whole thing had been rather humorous and enjoyed many chuckles at my expense.
But the panties in the gar
