There’s A Hole On The Bottom Of My Foot

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• September 9, 2018

There’s a hole on the bottom of my foot.

I made it.

It’s where a planters wart used to be.

You see, what I did was, I sat on my bed after smoking a joint with a glass of vodka soda on my nightstand.  After cleaning my foot, I took a book of matches, and one by one, I would light the match, blow it out, and then sear the callused planters wart with the still smoking match.  I would do this until the entire match book was empty.

If that sounds painful to you, I can assure you, it is.  A match burns at about 600 degrees.  It doesn’t hurt at first, but after a couple seconds it’s almost impossible to keep the match stick pressed against my skin.

Additionally, the toenail on my big left toe is about to fall off from a bleeding bruise I got from hiking.  I know you guys come to this blog for hot sex tips, usually, but I like to mix it up to see who my true fans are.

This is not the first time I’ve burned a planters wart off my foot.  If you read internet remedies, they strongly suggest you do not do this.  Then again, I’ve always been one to consider warnings but go my own way anyway.

Planters warts, unfortunately, are things that have come and gone since I was a kid. They’re not so much a big deal.  A lot of people have them and don’t know it.  Surely mine are the result of an adolescence where I simply refused to wear footwear in warm weather, running amuck barefoot, including (if not especially) beach bathrooms and showers. Sometimes they come and go without a bother, or without me even really noticing.  But if they cause me the slightest discomfort, they’re getting burned.

In the past, I have visited doctors, tried home treating kits and every “natural” remedy suggested online.  None works better (or faster) than burning that fucker off.

So, (you’re still reading this? why?) after the book of matches is spent cauterizing my foot, I simply go to sleep, and then in the morning, I cut it out.  This is also quite painful.  Not at first, the surface layer is dead skin and you can hardly feel it at all.  But thing about planter warts is you really have to dig deep to rid your foot of the root or it will grow back.  Again, this process means sterilizing the tools you’ll slice your foot with, along with pouring alcohol on the open wound itself.  This is where the actual danger of doing this comes in.  Burning yourself is just painful.  Once you’ve created an open wound on your foot, it is prone to infection.  Especially since it’s on the bottom of your foot, and feet are disgusting and often filled with bacteria.

Carefully, one must sanitize and bandage the now hole you’ve put in your foot.  You must monitor it, and clean it regularly so to avoid infection.  If you get an infection and have to visit a doctor and you tell them, “well, I slowly burned my foot with matches and then took a knife to it,” they will shake their head in disapproval.  Doctors.  So judging.  Infection is pretty easy to avoid if you’re diligent and practice good hygiene.  And after a day, it feels better than it has in weeks, perhaps months, depending on how annoying it was to your lifestyle (if you’re a runner, probably pretty annoying).

To be clear, you should not take medical advice from me.  While I am rather proficient in infectious disease because I’m a hypochondriac, I have no actual training in medicine.  Sometimes I think I should have become a doctor, but I think doctors have a higher suicide rate than comedians, so I’m probably taking the safer route telling my dumb jokes.

If you’re wondering where this is going, or if I have an overall point, message, or punch line, I can honestly tell you I don’t.  Sometimes I just write things and see where it goes.  Often, it goes nowhere.  I don’t have a lot of good ideas (which I think I illustrated in my actions of burning a hole in my foot).

There’s a hole in my head too.  Not an actual hole, of course, then I’d be in trouble.  But there’s holes where the screws fell out, and rattle around up there, fucking up the gears.  Gears move too fast, and then they get stuck, and sometimes they make noise and it’s terrible.

There’s not an actual hole in my heart, which would (probably) be worse because I’d be dead.  Instead the void that you fill, but then it either grows, or disintegrates everything in it.  That black  hole.  That meaninglessness.  It’s the end of the universe.  There’s no actual filling the void, not indefinitely anyway.  There will be times though, good times, when it will feel like it doesn’t exist at all.  Yes, there will be good times.

More than not, they’re at odds with each other.  A duel, between the head and the heart.  They know one can’t live without the other, however, the head has threatened to kill them both.  The heart does the same.  They both go together if one goes down.

It’s not always this way.  Hand in hand, the head and the heart can create a splendorous existence, enjoying each other’s companionship.  The best laughs are both cerebral and emotional.  The head and the heart agree on that.  The head knows, if the heart isn’t happy, the head won’t feel like participating.

Then again, when brain starts malfunctioning, and the heart faintly cares about much at all, all you could do is wish it was as easy to fix as burning a hole on the bottom of your foot.