Someone Call A Toe Truck

This keeps happening, goddammit.

A quarter century ago I did a one and a half gainer down a flight of cellar stairs at around two in the morning (I had to go to the bathroom, it was down there) and in addition to making the wall ring when my head hit and spraining my lumbosacral joint, tore off my left pinky toenail. I didn’t notice it until later (there are a lot of things you don’t notice when you are sprawled buckytail naked across stair treads at 2 AM and you still have to pee). It grew back, but somehow, racing around trying to get ready to take “casual” publicity stills of an egomaniac politician visiting a Solar Home Expo on the National Mall, I tore it off again back in ’05. Actually I think I broke the toe. You can never really tell. The photos came out kind of shitty, too.

Mufti Federal Candidate admiring only thing that makes him smile, a photoelectric array

Mufti Federal Candidate admiring only thing that makes him smile, a photoelectric array

This morning I had something to take to the trash outside and I don’t know how I did it, but I collided with the recycling wheelie and ripped the motherfucker off again.

The only good thing about this is that I notice, over the years, I get gutsier about pulling away that bit of nail that is still hanging on by a bit of tattered integument.

I made it through the gym, clients and yard work with it swaddled in a band-aid and Neosporin, and by tomorrow I doubt I’ll even notice it, but it makes a body feel paranoid. Should I stay away from stairs? Politics? Recycling bins? Is the God of Toes trying to tell me something?