Last weekend, when I was heading back to school with Allison, we had barely embarked on our road trip when Allison’s car began to 1) smoke under the hood, 2) flash the check engine light, 3) make an ominous puttering sound, 4) leak fluids, 5) cause the temperature gauge to start flying towards the red zone, and finally 6) smell like gas, all of which culminated in me shouting, “ALLISON WE NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS CAR RIGHT NOW,” as we came to an abrupt halt and then dove into a ditch.
I thought this weekend would be a little less action-packed, and it has been, except for the fact that I somehow managed to break my pinky toe. It’s true that I don’t know this for sure, because I haven’t gone to a doctor, but my brother Alex did break my toe once in Canada when we were kids, so I’m comparing the sensations and making a guesstimate. I say I “somehow managed” to do this like maybe there’s a funny story in here somewhere, but there isn’t. I was walking out of my bedroom and my foot got caught on my dresser. My thought process went exactly like this:
- “MOTHERFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU—” which was followed by
- “Well there goes that toe, good thing it’s not one of the important ones,” followed by
- “I guess this means I don’t have to go to that party tonight.”
And if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like dropping a Harry Potter book on a broken toe, well, wonder no more, because it feels like every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light.