THE MAKINGS OF A GOOD DAY

This morning, as I stumbled through the living room, quiet as a wildabeast, I yelped. I looked down. The bottom of my left foot was bleeding.

Stoicly shrugging away the excruciating pain, I took a step forward and realized whatever the hell caused me to bleed was still in my foot. I hobbled to the couch and used my fingernails like tweezers to extract a clear, plastic splinter from the ball of my foot. I made my way up to the bathroom, cursing under my breath because now I was really going to be late, and put some New Skin and a bandaid over the offending hole.

I returned to the downstairs to make breakfast. I looked down. There was a red line across the top of my RIGHT foot.

"I don't remember scratching myself," I thought. "It can't be a scratch," I thought. "It must be pen," I thought.

THEN I LICKED MY THUMB AND RUBBED IT.

It burned like a goddamn scratch.

Then I thought, "I am a mother-effing idiot. Now I've gone and infected it and my foot is going to swell up to the size of a watermelon and fall off."

I returned to the bathroom for some more New Skin.

Upon arriving at work, I picked up an Xacto blade and began cutting out the invitations I printed for an upcoming event.

I poked myself in the forearm with the Xacto blade.

I sighed, heavily, and pushed back away from my desk. And rolled over my own toe.

* * *

For the record, I feel much better today.

I also totally forgot I owe Sarah Cool dinner.

* * *

I love you. I want to keep you and smoosh you and play with you and walk you and give you treats until you fall over in utter exhaustion from all the attention and lovins and belly rubs.