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.