I went out to get my mail without shoes on, because it's only about 20 feet to the mailbox from the front door and I like the warm grass on my feet. Somewhere near the pecan tree (10 or so feet) I felt something like a sting on the bottom of my foot. It fucking well hurt. A lot. I checked. Nothing was there. There weren't any splinters, stingers, thorns, or sharp objects of any kind protruding from my foot. I got the mail and hobbled back inside. In the next few minutes the sharp stinging increased and my foot started to tingle. The muscles contracted a little. Your average person would probably start to freak out a little bit at this point. And being close to average I certainly did. But being not quite average I opted for continuing to watch the Chapelle Show instead of maybe calling someone about it. Nothing terrible has happened in the last two hours. For all I know something evil is climbing its way up to my torso, so that, once there, it can feast on my organs. The only lasting side effects are that every now and then I get a little jolt from that spot on my foot, and it also feels like my foot is scared of more pain. Almost like it is preemptively cringing. It has already been established in the past on a psilocybin adventure that my feet are pussies. And understanding that mindset and the imagery that the phrase "pussy-feet" conjured up, you can also understand why the half hour following the statement were spent curled up in a ball in the grass trying to breathe through all the laughing.
This afternoon story break has been brought to you by the good people at Borden Dairy Products.
"Borden. If it's made from milk, we probably have some around the factory somewheres."