Mar 24, 2005 01:19
My feet, affectionately coined tingle toes. By me, of course. They are a little needly, sharply getting purple, sometimes just a bit numb. If this weather shit doesn't just cut it out already, I am going to have an episode. An episode we can more appropriately term, "Pirate Peg leg learns how to walk". Peg leg, I realized earlier, is a state that I had been in before it was actually about pegging on one foot. I was envisaging a time when I was dating the manager of Webster Hall, a little rat-nosed bastard who had a long disgusting pony tail. He was the first guy I dated who had any real tattoos, and by "real" I mean more than two. So anyways, I was out with him, prancing around in my stupid tall platform boots. They were Luichiny, and platformed up like 6 inches. They were these stretchy elastic fuckers and had this terrible thing with not having any actual ankle support, just functioning as well as a sock on a platform would. So accidents happened, those little ankle twist ones where you kind of trip a bit like a drunk hooker, wearing too-high stilettos, looking like you are trying to hard. Because of course, you are. Tumbling will send you to the asphalt in these things eventually because it really is just a matter of statistics. So I fall into the street, landing somewhere between car and curb. I was drunk, the post work beverages hitting me just the right way. And I ended up twisting it so bad, I could no longer walk without whimpering. So my humiliated and inebriated self gets pulled into the cab with the rat, and we jet off to his apartment. I never did get any medical attention for this, instead deciding my mental scolding would heal it up. But, I did spend the rest of the night crawling, crawling like a psycho looking for a drink in a desert. Crawling on my knees, elbows down, dragging my stealthy dead flipper feet along behind me and crying with every movement. Crawling to use the bathroom because my bladder pee button was then getting socked by the alcohol in my body.
Girls do stuff like that, you know. Hurt themselves to look pretty for whom? For our boyfriends? For our girlfriends? For ourselves even. I don't know how it is I actually justified this, but I did wear those Frankenboots out even afterward, after my ankle healed and I was able to walk upright, unlike a dog.
Later on I became Pirate Peg leg because of the graft. Sometimes I cannot walk. Sometimes it's just too painful to put pressure on, the blood having escaped down my leg to hide somewhere where it's not supposed to be. This usually coincides with some nasty weather thing. Or too much movement and not enough stretching. Pirate Peg leg is one of those states best enjoyed alone, though. Because crawling on your hands and knees to the bathroom in the middle of the night when someone is there is just not sexy. I mean, imagine yourself stumbling in the darkness to the bathroom, feeling along the walls, and then you hit something, and you hear a grunt. And you keep walking, tripping on the coffee table somehow advancing toward you at a quickening pace, crawling faster, swerving even, trying so hard to avoid the inevitable tackle. But you can't help it, you hit. So your drowsy sleep head wonders why and how someone would want to do that to you.
You know, pose as a coffee table and play dodge-ball.