Night of the Living Dead Toenail!!!

I need to buy a pair of steel-toed boots. Not because I have finally decided to head out on my motorcycle and retroactively kick the ass of all the guys (and girls) who have ever wronged me, but because I am apparently not coordinated enough to walk down the street without hurting myself.

Last Friday I was walking to work and smashed my toe on a crack in the sidewalk. It hurt, the nail turned purple, and I'm pretty sure it's going to fall off. I'm pretty sure it's going to fall off because this is the third time I have done something like this in the past year. The first time I wouldn't even look at the nail. I could tell something was very wrong because it didn't stop throbbing for three days and I could barely put my shoes on. Instead of doing something reasonable like attempting to assess the damage and try to figure out if I'd broken something, I decided I didn't want to know and spent the next month applying about thirty coats of bright red nail polish.

Eventually my curiosity got to me and I took the polish off to reveal something that looked like it belonged to a dead person. The entire nail was yellow with white streaks and a few days later it got super loose and wobbly and I had to pull it off. I spent the rest of the summer painting the skin on my toe red so that I could wear sandals without causing anyone to vomit when they saw my foot.

My only saving grace this time is that it's Fall and therefore the only person who will have to deal with my deformity is the guy I'm dating. I would feel embarrassed, but I generally figure having to stifle whatever mild disgust a guy or girl might experience in facing down my various pimples, blisters, and zombie-like appendages is just part of the trade-off if they want to sleep with me.

And I wonder how I stayed single for so long . . .

Bedtime Stories

There’s a stupid tradition of insomnia being regarded as some kind of creative badge of honor. It’s a sign that the sufferer is not only serious about their work, but that they’re so overwhelmed by the force of their own mind-bending brilliance that they can’t possibly take time off for something as base and unconstructive as sleep. I would like to say I can identify with that; that the reason I’m typing this blog entry at 2 in the morning is because I needed to take a break between sketching pages for my graphic novel and outlining my memoir. Sadly that is not the case. The real reason I can’t stop my mind from whirring long enough to drift off is that last night one of my friends decided it would be a good idea to relate, in detail, the plot lines of several of the scariest movies he had ever seen.

Sitting on Friend’s futon and rendered a sedated moron by the knowledge that I would be staying at his apartment that night, I decided this wasn’t the worst idea ever conceived and listened enthralled as he described many scenes involving naïve travelers, psychotic hillbillies, and a variety of sharp and pointy instruments. Well now it is late and I am alone and instead of being enthralled I am apparently twelve years old. I have spent the last two hours watching The Daily Show on my computer and alternately jumping out of my skin every time the cats make a noise and wondering if it’s possible to have an orgasm just from listening to Jon Stewart mercilessly ridicule Sarah Palin.

That said, while I’m going to be exhausted when I have to get up a few hours from now and listening to my heart beating inside my ears isn’t exactly my favorite way to spend my time, being up this late alone isn’t all that terrible. It’s kind of like a slumber party. With myself. And the cats. Okay, now I’m not sure what’s scarier, the idea of a pointy-thing weilding mainiac lurking right outside my window or the fact that I just had that thought. Whatever. It’s far too late for this and now that it’s 3am I’m going to get up and move onto Phase II of my plan to stop freaking out titled: “Is there any problem watching TV while eating chocolate chips straight from the bag can’t solve?”