Warning: Graphic Descriptions of Boo-Boo Toe

So this summer I broke my toe.  The nail was all black, but it stayed on.  I went to an orthopedist, who gave me a soft cast, and I wore it dutifully (I even had to ride the scooter thing at Winn Dixie, which was a trifle humiliating, and let my wife drive, which was a lot humiliating.)

The toe healed, new nail growth was pushing the nasty black part forward, all was well.

But then, a month or so ago, the front part of the nail (the black part,) finally came off.  It was only a quarter inch from the front, so I didn't think much of it.

But apparently the nail behind got confused and decided to grow sideways into the flesh of my toe.   I developed a massive swollen lump of inflamed tissue around the invasive blade of keratin that was shanking my toe from the inside.  I messed with it, and thought that I had dislodged it and that it would grow forward normally.

I was wrong.

It recently became apparent that the nail was ingrown, and had dug into my toemeat like it was a cave complex in Afghanistan.

I made an appointment for the foot doctor for Monday, thinking they could advise me as to what I would have to do, and if it would require surgery or whatnot.

Instead, when I went in, he took a look at it and said "yeah, that's ingrown.  Let's get it out.  You allergic to Lidocaine?"

And like that, I felt the safety bar lower down around my shoulders as the cars of the terrorcoaster began clicking along on their long ride upwards, before plummeting down the screaming track of pain and fear.

The guy sprayed my toe with a can of whatever Captain Cold uses to stop the Flash, and then injected me with something he claimed would numb the area (I didn't see the label, but I'm pretty sure it was bees, judging by feel alone.)  Being a manly man, I did not scream, because emotions are for women and robots (only at the end of their character development arc, and then only right before a heroic act of self sacrifice.)

Then he went away, presumably to laugh, and returned after my foot had gone "numb" (a more accurate description would be to say that the bees had knocked the extremity mostly unconscious.)  I allowed him to put the little curtain up to block my view of the procedure, certainly not because I was squeamish to observe the action itself, but out of polite respect for his professional technique, which I believe he had acquired after years extracting information from political prisoners somewhere like North Korea or the Sudan.

The procedure ( I later gleaned from my wife, who was kind enough to accompany me for the event,) involved him taking a pair of snippers and simply slicing at my toe like a Dreadnok and carving a gash down the side of the nail.  He then took out a pair of locking forceps and grabbed the offending nail fragment, yanking out a jagged shard of bloody nail that would not have looked out of place emerging from one of Wolverine's knuckles.

None of this was pleasant.

And that is why I will not be able to come in to school tomorrow and stand on my feet for five and a half hours proctoring the SAT.

My sincerest apologies, and fucking ow.