beware the mom spit

Like many people, I talk with my hands. They wave and flap and do a bit of pidgin, but they are not still when I talk. If you sit near me, I promise that I don’t have cooties and you will not melt when I bump you with my wildly flailing arms. If I sit next to you at a meeting, you will want to remind me to take digital notes instead of killing trees. Unfortunately for the person sitting next to me at my last initial organization meeting as the President, I blathered with a pen in my hand. That led to an unwanted scribble on their hand.

My victim calmly held up their freshly graffitied hand with a smirk and without pausing my blah-blah-blah, I licked my finger and began to scrub the ink on that stunned silent person’s hand as though they were a 2-year-old. The second I realized what I was doing, I fell apart laughing and the meeting completely derailed. It was a fitting way to end my tenure and be remembered.

My only regret is that it wasn’t included in the meeting minutes.

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