Welcome to occasional posts by me:
The very best journalist on substack. Suck it, Glenn Greenwald and Bari Weiss.
On Saturday night I’d gone upstairs to pee, and on the way downstairs I missed a step and slid down four or five steps to the bottom, banging the second toe on the right foot (the “piggy that stayed home,” if you need clarification) on the door jamb and knocking the end joint out of place so that it was pointed the wrong direction.
I’d include a photo, but I forgot to take one because, you know, toe pointed the wrong direction. Slightly higher priority than the instagram moment.
I limped to the other bathroom and yanked the dislocated joint back into the proper configuration. It didn’t hurt, really, but for some reason my teeth couldn’t stop chattering, which (looking it up just now) is a sign of an adrenaline rush, so if you’re an adrenaline junkie unlike me banging your toe really hard is one way to do it, I guess.
Sunday was Easter and I spent a lot of the day limping around and being grumpy.
Monday I decided to go to urgent care just in case, and after a set of X-rays that I’ll no doubt be shocked to discover the price of in about a month, it was revealed that I’d performed the “put the joint back in place maneuver” perfectly and there was nothing they could do to help me, save telling me that I was as good as the best orthopedic specialist they knew. It’s important for doctors to lie convincingly.