It makes for great Halloween gags. I can take it off upon request, and often can’t find it when I am trying to leave my apartment in the morning. It is the source of many questions and curious stares, and has afforded me many embarrassing, but humorous moments.

To get right to the point: I have a fake hand. To the world, I am just another “crippled kid,” or I guess “disabled” is the politically correct term these days. But, I find that even though I do have many handicaps, none of them have anything to do with the foot of plaster hanging off my right elbow.

Before you ask: I didn’t lose my arm in a farm accident, shark attack or in ‘Nam. I was born remature and without it.

I function as a relatively normal person, and over my life I have come to find that there are many funny things that “normal people” say and do around crippled children. Let me make an attempt to straighten you people out, and let you know what it is really like to be someone like me.

OK, just because we have a “disability” doesn’t mean that we are all mentally handicapped, gullible or even nice. Movies are particularly bad with this stereotype. Not all people are slow like Forrest Gump or angry like Lt. Dan. I swear, drink and put holes in my body and ink on my skin as much as a non-disabled chick. Just because I am missing a limb doesn’t mean you need to talk slower with me and treat me like I am going to throw myself into the fetal position at any moment crying, “Oh, I have a disability! And you are mean!”

We aren’t sensitive to the subject either. Now, realize that there is a lot of give-and-take here. If someone recently lost a function of their body, I could understand the need for a grieving period.

But most of us love to joke, and I am usually the first person to tell jokes about it. I figure life is too short to be bitter. I have so many funny stories about things that have happened to me over the years. And if you are there when I tell one and think it is funny, go ahead and laugh — I won’t be offended.

People seem scared to offend me. If you want to know about my arm, ask. Every time someone wants to ask me about my arm, they always dance around it. Typically, they start by saying something like, “I don’t want to offend you, but can I ask you a question?” Be straight-forward. I think I have a sixth sense about it anyway. I can tell you want to know, so just ask.

There’s also a notion of helplessness in people’s assumptions about disabilities. Unless we ask, don’t help. I hate it when people offer to carry things for me that I seem to be handling fine on my own. I can tie my shoes with one hand, open bottles and I’m probably as good at baton twirling as the next kid. And when friends are at a hardcore show with me, they know I can hold my own in the mosh pit, in fact, I find that a plaster arm comes in handy.

Don’t gawk, please. I know that the silicone-based “skin” on my prosthesis stains easily and probably looks diseased, but it won’t talk back. Stares usually aren’t flattering like being “checked out;” instead, it is as if a monster were camping out on my elbow, waving at passers-by.

Life with a fake hand isn’t a tragedy, it’s more of a collage of amusements.