Digital Deserter

Digitus annularis sinistra, we need to talk.

Have I done something to upset you recently?

I know you get left out of making obscene gestures but I include you every single metal concert I attend, my right hand has no monopoly in throwing up the horns.

Sure, you don't get to do any of the handwriting but that's going the way of the dinosaurs and you are a vital and valued member of Team Touch-typing.

I haven't bashed you, beaten you, broken you, crushed you, landed on you or jammed you in anything so why, WHY have you spent most of this month puffed up to twice your normal size, aching and refusing to bend?

Was it something I said?

We don't play sports and I've never played that stab-the-spaces-between-your-fingers-really-fast game, and do you know why?

Because we're buddies.

Because I would never endanger you like that.

Having two working hands is pretty awesome.

Which is why our current situation is so disconcerting.

Driving is difficult, touch-typing impossible, I keep bonking you on things because you're stuck out on a weird angle, and the other night I rolled onto you in my sleep and almost bit my tongue off because it hurt so much.

I've taken you to the doctor which proves not only am I taking you seriously but I'm willing to commit to working things out between us, so won't you meet me halfway?

About halfway between extended flat and fully curled against the palm?

So we do all those things we used to do together like hold stuff and open jars by ourselves.

Please let me know.

I love you.

Sincerely yours,

Ricochet