One Foot of Fun
My right foot is a piece of garbage. No, really. Since my teens, every once in a while, through some mysterious transformation enacted, doubtlessly, by clamoring minions of the underworld, becomes an agony generator equaled only by the presence of my Ex. But even I admit that, after years of DDR stomping, years more of wearing Nike Frees to strengthen various muscles, evidence might indicate healing or time or even luck had rendered that particular foot “normal.” Really, I should have realized: it was merely, like a bird waiting over your favorite parking spot, biding its time.
