Ready or not...

My foot hates me. It didn't say that in so many words because, well, it can't talk, but I can tell by the way it shoots me with what feels like a berjillion volts of searing pain every time I try to stand on it that it does indeed hate me. I feel bad. I don't like people and or body parts to hate me, but I don't know what else I can do. I've tried to be nice to it, hobbling around on crutches and keeping it up as much as possible for SIX WEEKS now. What more could it want?

I've put my life on hold for you foot. PUT MY LIFE ON HOLD. Can you not see that?
Look...

The drill and screws are right where I left them SIX WEEKS ago, sitting atop that ginormous dresser that you helped me move. Look... SIX WEEKS of dust build up is there too. Is that not enough to prove that I care about your well being? I have babied the crap out of you foot. We've done as little work as possible and have eaten so much take out that last night I was left to ponder when exactly it was that my family had last eaten a vegetable. Do you not find that terribly sad foot? Because I do.

So I'm here to tell you, "Your time's up Mister." (Uh, I mean Ms.) You have given me no choice but to get back to my life with or without you. I'm hosting Thanksgiving at my house in two days, that's right you heard me, THANKSGIVING and you are not going to stop me so don't even try. Which means that we have some work to do, you and I, and you're just going to have to suck it up and help me. That's right you heard me and I think we'll start by picking up that drill and hanging the curtain that I tried to hang that day after you broke. Remember? I thought I could ignore you and continue working anyway because I'm stubborn like that, but you said, "Ha-ha" and started hurting really bad, so we went to the Dr instead. Good times.

Hmm, I wonder what will happen to us this time...