Really cold hands

The DNA that was passed onto me was not meant to be in cold places. Really, really cold places for that matter. Somewhere in the twisted strains genes my mom, her mom, her mom’s mom and forever along the line passed me something called raynaud’s. A circulation disorder that swells the vessels in my fingers and my toes when I get cold. It turns them white. Really white. Like chalk. Like a carrot with no pigment. Tempting being that carrots are my favorite food. What if I just… chomped? What’s keeping me from chomping the carrot that is my pinkie finger? Probably the fact that I could not compare with my cousins and have a competition of who has the milkiest, chalkiest little fingies on the planet. I always win that one anyway. So, why seek a cold place if having fingers and toes much more prone to the cold? Hah. I dont know. The pain makes me feel alive, in a not weird psycho killer way. It ignites feeling with no work and nothing expected. A raw, real, and personifying feeling. Cold hands lights a fire inside of me almost stronger than the one needed to thaw my poor little really cold hands.