Mar
Posted on 31st March 2009
This past weekend, while navigating my palatial fifth-floor walkup studio apartment, I stubbed my toe like a motherf@#ker on an ornate Indonesian chest that sits at the foot of my reasonably-sized bed. I bought the chest in Cleveland at a store specializing in fineries and knick-knacks from Indonesia called City Buddha (now in two convenient locations, east and west, last time I checked). I had originally planned on giving it as a wedding gift, but once the realities of mailing that sort of thing shown themselves, I decided to just give it to someone who would really appreciate it- me. I’ve accumulated a lot of stuff that way over the years, including that matching set of martini glasses that remains in their original box in my parents’ attic about twelve years after the big day.
Anyway, as evidenced in the photo above, I really banged the f@%k out of my foot when I ran into that Indonesian chest (It’s got lots of gold leaf- you really should see it). I hate profanity, but I really let out with some expletives when the whole thing went down. I limped for a few hours after that and then pretty much forgot about what is now known as the Indonesian toe-stubbing incident of spring ‘09. After a day or so, however, I happened to notice that my little toe (and also portions of that delicate area in between my little toe and the one next to that) was battered, bloodied, bruised, and just kind of messed up in general. I questioned for a moment whether I might have a really high pain threshold or something to somehow not notice (you know, other than the brief limping period immediately following the Indonesian toe-stubbing incident of spring ‘09) that I had seemingly really messed up my toe. But then the Robin Byrd Show came on and, I dunno, I just sort of forgot whatever I was thinking about at the time.
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