(And I don't want to be a narcissistic douche or anything, but the same way a model loves her face is the way I love my feet. When Prince penned 'Adore', he read my mind. That song epitomises my thoughts on these paws.)
This tragedy had to be known by each and every person that crossed my path, starting with my grandparents (since I was already on my way to their house). By the end of the day I expected cards in the mail, Get Well balloons, pretty much nothing short of a telethon fundraiser in my name. So as I get ready to really polish this martyr role, I put on my forlorn face, pout my lips, act like my foot is weighed down with concrete and I dragged it across the floor to show my grandfather. In my most pathetic, 'Oliver' voice I say "look what happened, grandpa" (Cue the Russian choir) and show him the mangled toe.
That's just skin.
And what happens? That old man takes his motherfucking shoes off exposing fungus ridden toenails and starts his toe story with: "When I was in Vietnam..."
Are you fucking kidding me?!? I could have had my toe blown off that morning with a shotgun and then had the stump dipped in battery acid and STILL it wouldn't have anything on someone who starts their toe experience (EVEN if it was just a splinter) with the fucking word "Vi-et-NAM".
So for everyone under the age of 93, yes, my poor little toe is healing fine.