Sunday, September 12, 2010

This is obviously a metaphor. Obviously.

Last Spring, I broke a cobalt blue glass in my kitchen. It shattered everywhere, and by shattered, I mean the tiniest slivers, fragments, sparkles of glass. I swept. I vacuumed. I have in fact done both of those things multiple times, after all it's been six months. But I still keep stepping on glass. I have scars all over the bottom of my left foot, because this is magical glass that is only attracted to my left foot, or possible I step everywhere on my left foot first? (branch metaphor - what does leading with my left foot say about my brain, and corollary, is some emotional part of me trying to cripple that brain thing by cutting it to pieces, and thirdly, is my right foot smarter and manipulating my left foot into taking the fire?)

Last week, I stepped on another tiny tiny miniscule piece. I couldn't even see it. It went into my left big toe, and I examined that mother for an hour, poking and prodding, but couldn't see anything. So I figured I just stepped on it and it was somewhere on my floor again.

But over the past few days, there has been a hardening lump on my toe, that's starting to hurt more and more when I step on it. I made an attempt to ignore it. I spent a good couple of days in complete denial of it. Then I justified it as "well, I can still walk on it, it will eventually go away." This morning I looked at it again, and there are two tiny dark parts showing up quite clear against the lump. Which isn't red or anything. No, the pain is from my skin literally growing over this tiny tiny almost invisible thing.

So I have said to myself "this must be my toe skin pushing out the foreign object, and if I just wait it out, it will fall out, because the skin on the bottom of your feet grows out so quickly and sloughs off and ect I don't need to dig this out. Or eventually it will just be a callous and part of my foot and whats so bad about that?"

The logical part of me knows this is bullshit. But the emotional part of me says that just like flying penguins and tiramisu in space, this could be true. And thinks of when I was a little girl and got a splinter, which my mom tried to dig out, and I screamed bloody murder before she even touched it. Apparently, once something gets under my skin, I'd rather just leave it there, no matter if it hurts or not. I need someone who is good at wielding tweezers and doesn't mind me screaming a lot for no good reason. And who isn't a serial killer, though technically, they would probably meet the qualifications.


  1. I'm wicked good with tweezers. But I'm a serial killer. So boo.

  2. I'm only good with tweezers on my self...on you I would probably cause more damage. And then it would seem like a serial killer attacked you. Not good, not good at all.

  3. Tweezers are magic. Well, tweezers and codeine.

    And I have seen the flying penguins. Drinking lattes.

  4. I still can't stand the thought of going after a splinter with a needle. ::shudder:: I had to dig a shard of glass out of my husband's foot one time and I nearly passed out at his moans of pain.

    Try soaking it. That seems like a good way to avoid tweezers, if totally ineffective.

  5. Our parents told us to never walk on wood without sandals. We didn't listen. So one time we got a splinter and tried to take it out ourselves.

    We're now missing a foot.

    We love your blog!

  6. i think you write brilliantly. so brilliantly in fact that it makes me question my own brilliance. does that make sense? im pretty sure it makes me sound like i think im awesome but thats not it at all. i just mean that when i read some of your posts, like this one or the former i find myself reading and then re-reading and then staring at the words bc i think they are really stong and beautiful and i *think* i understand but im also pretty sure i never will.
    again - im probably not making any sense but that's really nothing new.

  7. Fuck the tweezers, man: OW. Band-aid and cream (eg, neosporin). That's all you need. See, that way the splinter will work itself out (for real--no flying penguin type fantasy required), but just gently and nicely and without all the unpleasant mutilation and pain and screaming.

    Perhaps following the metaphor through... there are ways to rid ourselves of these things without making hurt more, sometimes.

    Good luck!



Who wants to fuck the Editors?