i have a splinter on the bottom of my right foot. there is no logical explanation for this. i have neither been camping nor exfoliating with wood.
my parents reactions to this news were entirely in character and hilariously indicative of their differing life-views.
my father suggested i immediately, without hesitation, go to the emergency room to have the offending piece of wood removed and then carry on with my life.
my mother said to let it fester. eventually, someday, it would work its way out.
taking what seemed to be the least inconvenient pieces of both their recommendations, i let the splinter fester and carried on with my life.
and so i spent the weekend dashing around the city with a cant that comes innately to children with clubbed feet.
this led to a few unfortunates, chief among them the reality that walking on 1/3 of one's foot leaves one overly preoccupied with the movement of said foot rather than the placement, so that one is not aware of the pancaked rat corpse on which one is stepping until one has, in fact, already stepped in.
i am in the bathroom, washing the rat guts from my boots, wondering if i should be wearing gloves, when it hits me: this is very much not what i thought adulthood would be like.