Velociworld

A Broken Toe

I broke my toe again, yesterday morning. I say again because, although I have ten of the digits, I always break the same one. Middle toe on left foot, for the Library Sciences majors in the audience.

How? I arose at 5 am for a nice simple urination. My daughter had dragged a chair into the master bathroom for Harlot Mascara Lessons from The Bride, though, apparently, and had left the beast there.

I had planned to piss in the dark, at that ungodly hour, and, yes: sitting down. Even I don't like to step in my own dried mishaps. And so I kicked that fucking chair in full stride about three feet. I really had to go, you see.

Two options: throw the chair through the window, or cry like a baby. It hurt that badly. Well, there was option three, which was to awaken my child at five of the ayem and beat her mercilessly. But that wasn't really an option, was it?

And so I cried like a baby.

Because I figured it was just stubbed, and by six am I was in Johnston & Murphys heading to the airport. I wore those damned shoes until 11:45 that night, with the toe throbbing more intensely by the hour. By the time I was able to shred my shoe and stocking it was a red, purple, heliotrope mess. Because there was no time to deal with it earlier. Fly into Norfolk, go visit the Frogs for a four hour meeting, stop by the Israelis for a nice chitchat, then catch the late flight to Newark. Dinner in Rutherford, and a very short soaking of the puppy in question at midnight.

I awoke at 5:00 (again) and, after a 7am breakfast, drove into the City for a four hour asswhipping at the hands of my Sicilian Masters. Meanwhile my puppydog is crying out for lack of attention, the poor bastard.

I skeezed the last standby seat on a 3:15 today, however, and now I am indulging my damaged and neglected, swollen and importuned, toesie with an Epsom bath, and cooing in his ear.

Tomorrow, balance and pain notwithstanding, I shall beat that child, and burn that chair.