A revised version of 'personal narrative'

     I was 10 years old when I found a small callus on my ring finger. Not larger than the size of a coin, it was embedded right on the tender nuckle like an unwelcomed guest. Usually kids my age had a pinkish trace on their middle finger, but nobody had one with such a definite shape. This gave me nerves. I knew well that being a lefty, I was bound to put more burden on my finger which may cause in calluses. But looking at the soft, smooth hands of fellow students, I couldn't help but feel frustrated towards my already contaminated hand. It wasn't only me who was hostile, either. My friends, upon discovering a new chunk of skin resting on my finger, seemed to think of it as a bit gross, while my mom simply sighed. She just said "I told you" in a way that I felt very guilty.
      As the callus grew, my hatred for it also increased. I started having calluses all over my hand;
wherever the pencil touches it spread its ugliness. I adopted the habit of peeling the dead skin off the callus. Sometimes it would end up bleeding, sometimes it would not, but I didn't care. My only aim was to get rid of that creature of a devil out of my finger. But irritable enough, the thing
kept its expansion. Steadily it grew, and never seemed to stop.
     Then one day, it did stop. 
     It was from the words of someone I only knew the face of . It was that time of the day when you didn't have anything in particular. I was staring into the void when she said, "You must have studied very hard. It shows on your finger."
     A new perspective swept over me. I realized for the first time how my foe could have actually been a friend, a token given for all the time I spent forcing words down the paper with my left hand. Rather than a doom, it was a present I could gloat over. After that was a wave of appreciation. Looking back, there had been some perks of having a callus, such as when I was able to identify left and right through where my callus was: left with the callus, right without callus. I took each of them with gratitude and laughed at all I had missed during the past years. It was a jovial encounter.
     In conclusion, the moral I got from this experience is simple: be positive. If I kept the horror towards having a callus, I'd probably still be obsessing over it, ripping off of it untill my skin hurts. What's more productive, however, would be to wake up from the bad dream and face what you have in front of you. Then you'd be able to perceive what you never did before: that the horror and the monstrosity was nowhere but in your mind.