A friend of mine convinced me that 99.9% of first kisses are terrible and that it would be best to practice beforehand.

“How?” I asked him.

“Kiss your hand.”

“What?”

“Kiss your hand.”

“I’m not going to kiss my hand.”

“Kiss it.”

“But it won’t kiss back.”

“Yes it will. Just give it a face.”

My friend proceeded to tell me to draw a face onto my hand. Eyes. Lips. And to make it more masculine, I decided to draw a mustache. I described the face to my friend. My friend approved and told me to kiss “him.”

“No, I’m not kissing it.”

“His name is Pablo.”

“Pablo?”

“Yes, Pablo. Kiss Pablo.”

“I’m not going to kiss Pablo.”

This went on for a little while longer before we changed the subject and went on into yet another random tangent.

This morning when I took a shower, I neglected to dispose of Pablo from my hand. The idea of scrubbing Pablo’s “face” off the in-between place between my thumb and index finger gives me disturbing and creepy feelings, even now.

When I went to Barnes&Noble to pick up a book, recommended by the same friend who recommended I practice kissing Pablo, I failed to notice Pablo staring up at me as I wrote my name across the B&N receipt given me by the cashier. However, the cashier did notice Pablo.

“Eyes?”

“What?”

“Your hand has a face.”

I chuckled nervously, “Uh… Yah…”

“That’s really funny.”

“Thank you.”

Thank you?

I walked through the store’s front doors and held my left hand up to my own eyes. Pablo is cross-eyed and has since lost his mustache. But the cashier was definitely right. Pablo’s really funny.

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