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Some of my prime random thinking time is during my walk down to the bathroom from my office. We are in one of those offices that doesn’t have built-in facilities—you have to walk out and cross about half the building. The walk is a great peak out of the cocoon/cave I spend the best parts of the day in. This afternoon’s thought was spurred by seeing a bit of debris on the floor in the hall. The building management keeps the place spotless, so it was notable. It seems like they have a small army of people that keeps the entire place polished at all times. On rainy days when everyone walks in with muddy feet you can see exactly how much work is involved in the cleaning enterprise—lots. So I see this little bit of whatnot on the floor in the hall and I look down on it as I walk past and it kind of looks like a fake fingernail. It can’t be because it is white on the big end and clear on the narrow end. Never the less, it is enough to start thinking: “Why are they called fingernails?” Why not fingertip coverings? What weird twist of evolution or divine fiat put them on fingers? I accidentally scratched Taggart last night after dinner at Home Slice passing him his front passenger seat-belt from my vantage point in the back seat. Why is it that I can only be bothered with the minimal clipping of my fingernails instead of de-burring them too? I’m so appreciative of the clipper with a plastic housing around it that I think Killy and Carol gave me, although if it was someone else—my apologies, I deeply enjoy that tool every week or two. Life before it was a miserable state of torquing my fingers in the right direction so a magazine or something could catch the clippings. Even though I stopped saving the clippings, I love not making a mess.