Penis Toe

I have a secret...

I have a sensitive toe. I mean, it is NOT normal--it is REALLY sensitive. It's like having a pair of balls on your foot. That's what it feels like (except that it doesn't produce sperm, or anything. It's just VERY sensitive). I've had this sensitive toe thing since as far back as I can remember. I think I shied away from telling a doctor when I was little; when I told my dad, he begged me to show him the toe, and when I did, he squeezed it really hard. So I don't trust men. Wait! I mean, doctors. I don't trust doctors.

Then when I was older, in an attempt to face my fear, I told my doctor. She poked at it a bit and then said that the nail had never formed fully over the toe bed. ("Toe Bed" sounds really nice, doesn't it? Potential band name? First born child's name? Hmmm...) She said if I just cleaned it a bunch it would grow back.

That is bullshit! I am obsessive about cleaning my feet. For real. Maybe it's a Jesus thing--maybe it's OCD. Regardless, I redoubled my efforts at cleaning the toe--and still there was no end to the sensitivity.

Is this story going where you thought it would be...

Direct pressure to the toes is utterly painful. Even if I rake a sheet across the tiny nub at the wrong angle I will double over in agony. Consequently, I hardly ever get pedicures because the lil korean ladies don't listen when you tell them that they should avoid that toe. They kind of pay attention as they wash your feet and file your "baby nails." But as you sink into your comfy pedicure arm chair and let her massage your newly painted feets, she will pinch the end of each toe to finish off. AHHHHHH!!!!!!!

Last night before a comedy show I am talking to a couple of dudes in the lobby. One inadvertently stomps on my toe really hard. I was wearing flip flops.

Oh. my. god.

I can't even tell you the wave of pain that shot through me. He apologizes. I'm gasping and yelping and such. I mutter some lie about how I stubbed that toe earlier in the day, which is why I am reacting like a dweeb to this mild stubbing (no one wants to hear about the toe weirdness too quickly into knowing me). The two guys move on to talk about something else.

And me? I start sweating. I mean, it seems like the room is a million degrees all of a sudden. I can only guess that that is some syptom of shock--like when people's limbs get cut off at the plant, or a shark eats half of you while you're swimming. I think that's what was happening to me. Shock. So I grab a postcard on a nearby table and start fanning myself. I am nodding at their polite conversation. I have NO IDEA what they are talking about. I can only hear my own rapid heartbeat at this point.

I try to shake it off and walk into the theater. I think I am limping a bit. After the show ends--I decide to forgo the bar and head home so I can nurse my toe a bit. I tell everyone that it's "just time for me to go."

When I get to my apartment, I lovingly and gently wash my lil wayward fella with water and soap. It's all red and inflammed. It looks up at me with an angry face, like "WHY do you insist on wearing open-toed shoes? WHY do you stand near large men with awkward gates and no sense of personal space? WHY?!" And all I can do is gently craddle it in a towel. I even put an ice pack on it. I prop it up on a pillow like a
princess before I go to sleep. But the little toe keeps me up all night with it's persistent throbbing.

Ugh. I wish I had health care. Could this be a tumor?

How's this new-fangled gizmo work?

So I guess I'm responsible for the approval of people's comments on my blog. I'm sure I set that up at some point after a machine left an automatic post about GIRLZ GIRLZ GIRLZ in the comments section. But I'd forgotten, or something. And I thought no one was reading this, lost the will to live and moved on.

But there are some comments here. woohoo!