faster pussycat... type! type!

The thing is, when you walk, you use the bottom of your feet, you can't avoid it. I hobbled into the am/pm only to find out the bathroom was closed for repairs. This meant I would have to stop again, and walk again. I made it as far as Everett, about 35 minutes from home. I seriously considered just peeing myself. it seemed like a really good idea. But I stopped. When I got home, it was late and I pretty much hobbled to bed.

When I woke up in the morning, I had the full blown big blisters and I couldn't walk. I barely made it to the bathroom. Everyone's advice was to drain them. Do you know how gross that is? Poking a hole in a giant blister and then squeezing the puss out? So gross. But kinda cool, in a sick way. So I did it, but it wasn't until about 2:30 or 3:00 that I was able to put on my thickest socks and gently insert my feet into my comfy Merrells, and prissy step out to the car to go to the nearest drive-thru for Dr. Pepper. Now you KNOW it's pain if I waited that long for caffeine. My feet were tender for days.

Now, maybe that's not enough pain to warrant a pair of Danskos, even if I got them for half off. But the other day I was taking a shower, Pru was sitting en garde on the toilet seat, as per usual, and I knocked the razor off the side of the tub. I ignored it. And then I stepped on it. And sliced a big gash on the bottom of my left foot. Blood everywhere, Pru was no help in a crisis - she went running. But that could have been because I could not resist making Psycho-esque "reet reet" stabbing noises, as blood rain down the drain. I grabbed the nearest implement of first aid I could find, a washcloth [an unfortunate white one] and tied it around my foot. After I got all the shampoo out of my hair, I went out to find some second aid.

I know I have a first aid kit somewhere, probably still in a box in the garage, where a lot of my stuff has sat for the past year an a half. I went to the hall closet to see if my stepdad had left one behind, because that's where my mom kept it when she lived in the house. Nada. So, I improvised. I wrapped a ultra thin sanitary napkin around my foot and secured in place with a hair scrunchy. Take that, fashion fascist scrunchy haters! That scrunchy probably saved my life!

So you can see, I needed new shoes. My feet are traumatized. I can't believe I have spent so much time talking about feet, even if they are mine. I hate feet. I don't have to justify my shoe purchases to you people! What's wrong with you guys? Making me feel guilty for buying more shoes. Give a girl a break.