The Elegent Podiatrist

When I was a kid, I had an ingrown toenail. I went to a podiatrists, but only after it was infected and terribly painful. After I was treated, I got another ingrown nail on my other big toe. It was treated, but then I got another ingrown nail in my other toe. And back and forth it went. They were pure agony. When I was 13, a "friend" of mine, a prick named Danny Howell, thought it would be funny to stomp on one. I nearly blacked out from the pain.

I hope he's out there up to his ass in debt, with 5 smartass kids and a wife who cheats on him.

Anyway, the podiatrist decided to kill the nerve on each big toe, since I seemed to have a bizarre inclination towards the problem. Now, my big toes don't grow on one side, they sort of grow on a slant. It's all true.

There's a lot to be said for the elegance of that solution. Of just killing the nerve that was causing the problem. These days, I find myself unbearably lonely as a result of successfully isolating myself. Virtually all of my problems exist in my head, in the form of depression, self-loathing, anxiety, insomnia, suicidal ideation, and all that jazz. More than anything else, I would like to kill the nerve that is causing me so much pain. The bloody, pus-oozing injury is not in my sock this time, it is atop my shoulders. And if Danny Howell were here, I'm sure he'd stomp on my head to make it worse.

Just a snip at the base of my brain, or perhaps an old-fashioned lobotomy, and suddenly I'd be free of this nonsense. The thoughts of death and feelings of worthlessness would end. The branch would break, and down would come baby, cradle and all. There is nothing wrong with being alone and pathetic if you're not around to judge yourself that way. The world as it is gets sifted through my brain, and I'm left with a series of images, expressions, and thoughts that lead to a devestating conclusion. Whispered in my ear, that assessment becomes a mantra, "Your life has no meaning, you suffer alone."