*Warning, this post contains gross images that you probably will not want to look at while eating, or quite frankly, while doing anything. If you're squeamish about blood, stop reading. If you have no desire to see pictures of a disgusting looking cut, stop reading. You've been warned.*
If there's one thing about me that's pretty apparent to most people I know in real life that isn't so apparent to those in blog life, it's that I'm a klutz. A tired and true klutz.
There's a coffee table in your living room? Great, it'll be a magnet to my knee as soon as I walk into your humble abode. That metal bar holding up the bus stop waiting area structure will for sure make contact with my shins as soon as the bus arrives and I jump at the chance to get on first. And don't even stop to ask if I'm alright when I walk straight into the sign sticking out of the sidewalk either - I've been there a few too many times, I'm used to it. This is 99% of the reason why I love Jennifer Lawrence more than I love myself.
I mean... stairs are hard guys, really hard.
I could never be a stripper just for the sole reason that I constantly have an average of at least four and a half bruises on my body at all times. It has nothing to do with the fact that my father would kill me and that it's generally not a very stable career; it's only because of the bruises mapped out across my skin.
This past weekend, I acquired bruise number eleventy thousand. Except for this one brought a bit more than black and blue puffiness to the party. It decided a gaping gash and a trip to urgent care was more its style. I obviously wasn't too fond of this new found love affair because it meant that I had to get my first set of stitches, ever. 24 and a 1/2 years old without a single stitch in this body of mine. I'd say that's somewhat successful for a klutz, no?
Anyway… the culprit of this little encounter was a shard of glass. Where exactly it came from, I'm not sure. How it managed to slice the top of my foot open, I'm completely sure. You see, the shard got stuck to the bottom of my left heel after I had unknowingly stepped on it. I had no idea it was the most evil piece of skin-slicing horribleness at the time, though. I just thought it was a pen cap or a crumb of cereal or a stray piece of random plastic. You know, something that would normally be found on the floor. So I did what any normal person would do and slid my left heel along the top of my right foot in order to swipe it off. No I did not bend down to make sure said thing stuck to my foot wasn't an evil piece of skin-slicing horribleness instead of swiping it. Most people don't do that; just think about this post the next time it happens to you. I bet you'll agree with me.
But obviously as soon as I carried out this swift maneuver, I realized that I had wreaked havoc. Blood started gushing, my mouth started gaping, and my eyes started shedding dime-sized tears all over the place. If there's something else that most IRL people know about me that you don't, it's that I am quite the baby when it comes to getting hurt.
I had never cut myself open this deeply in my life so I started to freak out a little. And by a little I mean a lot. Which was when I sent out the following pictures to some nurse friends as well as Twitter asking if I should get stitches.
I told you things would get gross. The general consensus went a little like "uhhhmmm wtf Erin, definitely, that's absolutely disgusting, put down the beer" so off to NYU Langone hospital I went. Because I wasn't about to turn into one of those unfortunate souls that suffers the loss of a limb due to a flesh eating bacterial infection.
After three hours of waiting, a couple wheel chair rides from a man who told me I had a really good chance of marrying someone with a foot fetish up until this catastrophe, one tetanus shot, three stitches from a doctor who was definitely screwing her attending Grey's style (I may have been slightly jealous of her), and a few X-rays from a woman who told me my ankles were "wonky", I had myself a children's sized hospital booty and a throbbing foot to go home with.
Move over Mama June, your forklift foot has a new friend in town. Meet Frankenstein foot.
And now I get to
walk limp around Manhattan looking like the cutest peach in the entire world with this little number strapped to my foot. So if you see me hobbling down the street, holla at your girl. And if you get anything stuck to your foot, bend down to pick that shit off with your hand.
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