At thirteen, I tore down the stairs pretending I was Batwoman. As I rounded the corner my foot collided with a glass cup. I had glass in my foot for five minutes.
At seventeen, my mom hollered that dinner was ready. I exploded from my stationary position in my bedroom staring at the wall. My foot mutilated a sheet glass picture covering. The ER surgeon sutured the slash shut, suppressing the blood parachuting out of my foot. I had an inch of glass in my toe for two months. I like to think that I don't have King Kong hands, but the glass extended the distance between my pointer finger joint and the finger tip.
At twenty-three, after five months in the land of the holy cow, I muddled down my friend's San Francisco apartment hallway to the bathroom. Russian Vodka barraged my bladder.
My friend Fi-Town had returned from Russia with a three liter bottle of Vodka. The bottle was the size of a giant panda. It required a pump to dispense the spirits. My body ricocheted off the hallway walls as I shuffled faster. I didn't want Noah's Arc urine flood gushing from my vagina, a discharge wake illuminating on the wooden floor.
I strode, my footsteps resounding off the ceiling. My right foot thundered into the floor. A piece of glass clashed into the bottom of my foot.
"Not agaiiiinnnnn," I wounded-walrus-bellowed.
I extracted the glass shard with my fingers.
It has been two weeks. I don't have health insurance. The free clinic is as functional as a down syndrome child at a spelling bee. Every time I walk, the glass in my foot taunts me.