I’m bored. And my foot hurts. On July 12th, 2004 at 12:51 AM, a baby was born. She had, as one might expect, two legs. This is where our troubles began, because, in a shocking twist of narration, that baby is me. Am the baby. For the first 7 years of my life, my right leg caused me no pains. It learned to walk with the rest of me, served its purpose in transportation and survival methods in a house full of brothers. It even got quite good at soccer. With the turn of year nine, I was injured. Setting my foot sideways into a rabbit hole, my ankle was badly sprained. Now I’m not one to be dramatic, but this sucked. Immeasurable pain, empty x-rays, clueless doctors, and roughly an entire year spent on and off crutches, hard casts, walking casts, and ankle braces, it eventually cooled down. It only took a small chunk of my childhood, and I wore a brace for another two years after. At the end of this ordeal, my right leg was significantly smaller than my left leg from lack of use. In 4th grade I almost lost my whole big toenail. Didn’t aim properly going off the diving block. gross. I’m 5”11, and I didn’t get up here easy. Growing pains plagued me for years, and were particularly bad in my right leg. Why? No idea. No, my left leg is not shorter. In august of 2019 I stood at a window watching my good friend Jeeves the chipmunk devour the almonds I had placed for him. As he moved out of sight I stepped to follow to another window, and tripped dramatically over a 2 foot guitar amp that I myself had placed there days ago. This fall took with it a great deal of flesh and skin, and my shin now bears some shiny lavender flesh where pasty white used to be. Similarly, last year I played in a soccer team against my mothers old high school. Determined to destroy the prep school spray-tan false-lashes girlies, I threw my body on the line in goal, skinning knees, bonking skulls, jamming fingers, and bashing ribs. All this was apparently fine, and we went into the second half winning 1-0. With the injury of one of our forwards, I asked coach to send in the backup goalie and let me rage. He obliged. I destroyed. Scored two more goals, and with the assistance of my lovely defenders, kept the ball miles from our goal. The only issue occurred in the first 2 minutes of playing forward. In a brief tussle, my right ankle was stomped. No big deal, this is soccer. Except it didn’t stop hurting. And burning. I was aware throughout my time on the field that my sock was drenched in blood, but I was winning so no time for bleeding. Deep into the second half I had developed a limp, and a ref had taken notice of my white-no-more sock. I was forced to retire. The trainer sped over with his tackle box of gauze and patched me up for success, but without another non-bloody sock, I could not retake the field. All for the best probably, because my ankle appeared to have a spoonful take from that hard hingey bit right above my foot. I don’t know what it’s called, you’re a nerd if you correct me. This injury only worsened with time, puffing up, oozing blood and mysterious liquids, turning kinda green, and kinda orange, and green again. The healing process was slow, and walking became unbearable. Because I am an idiot, I continued to play soccer without pause, leading to intense pains at every contact with the ball. Go me. Now a whole year later, my foot is still purple, looks scaly, and hurts sometimes just for fun. I stepped on a nail last week. And some glass the week before that. Right foot only. Blood all over the basement and kitchen. My knee clicks You’re welcome everybody!!