My Feet

I hate my feet. They are all messed up. I try to dress them in fancy, fun, and flirty footwear, but alas, it is like trying to dress a corpse. It might resemble the real thing, but it is still fucked up. Maybe the high heels give attention to the leprosy look? Will my Excema plague ever be in vogue?

When I was a kid, I used to tell my friends that I got "all bitten up by ants." They seemed to accept that better than me having some disease that looked "gross." I never really got teased though, just questioned. One girl, Suzanne told me motheringly, "You should not play in your front yard. I see you out there all the time and the ants must be so bad. Your dad should treat them." My feet, my feet, my feet. My mom used to get mad at me for not taking a shower. I'd run the water, sit on the edge of the tube and sponge off. Why? Because the falling coupled with soap and shampoo falling into the sores was traumatic and painful. And I wasn't a baby, it still hurts!

Now, I hardly feel my feet. They are dead to the world. After a broken foot, dislocated ankle, numerous sprained ankles, and broken toes (not to mention ingrown toenails and toenail loss), one of my feet has an apple sized knot and turns inward at almost a 90 degree angle. My friend Loretta thinks it is "jacked" and "fucked up looking." I'd have to agree. They arent pretty. Yes, I am lucky to have them and in some ways, lucky there isnt much feeling there now. But, when it is ouchy, it is ouchy! My poor feet. It is so sad that I need them so badly, because it is time to let them die. They have suffered enough. But alas, I must slap on some concealer and diamonds, and grab the creams, lubes, and ointments and get in the platforms. The feet will ride again!