My handwritten signature is an absolute abomination
In fact, every other signature on the planet is head and shoulders above mine. Charitably described, mine is inconsistent, messy, unstylish and indecipherable. Hold on just a minute now, because I know what you’re thinking: that sounds uncannily like a description of Kevin E. Buckley and his writings!
But in mitigation, my signature is a statement of sorts, a true reflection of who I am. It says: I don’t buy into this human ego crap, so why would I spend many hours of my life perfecting some fancy squiggle that depicts the name that was given to me when I was knee-high to a grasshopper and too young to object? Handwritten signatures are yet another part of the mysterious tableau of human existence that is beyond my comprehension. I have no idea why some ‘famous’ person’s signature would be deemed to be valuable. But by the same token, I have no idea why humans regard a lot of things on this planet as valuable. You can’t eat gold. Well, OK, you can, but it’s not very nutritious.
What I really need is a signature stamp or mini laser-printer to churn out pristinely precise autographs whenever my adoring fans or the bank manager requires them of me. But I don’t know if that’s kosher or not. I can see it being a problem on legal documents such as one’s last will and testament.