I bet you didn’t think Part 2 would come so quickly, didja? DISCLAIMER: don’t read if the title alone grossed you out.
So my foot was numb for about 24 hours after surgery, which was great. I got scared and popped a pain pill at night when I started to feel my toes a little bit. I got breakfast in bed and read more of Anna Karenina, and felt pretty good save for some phantom throbs in my foot. I don’t remember Saturday. I remember trying to eat at the table like a person and then having to lie down right after.
Sunday I lay around like a queen while the fam put together kitchen organizers in my apartment. To be fair, I was in painkiller side effect zone plus surgery recognition by my body. My mom pointed out that my heel was purple. Yum. We went to order pizza and I had a minor breakdown where I called the pizza place, was told they don’t deliver on weekends, handed the phone to boyfriend and said, “ugh I don’t care. I can’t do anything.”
I felt like my brain just shut off. My synapses held up little picket signs that said: eff you, we are not working overtime today. Like any evil ruling overlord, I had to comply. My stomach was twisted in knots and the arteries around my foot seemed to be putting on a thumping rave. Something was thumping in there and giving me a headache, anyway. Luckily, we watched I Love You Man and due to the TV editing I learned the insult, you’re such an armhole!
As my foot guru April predicted, my wheelie chair became my best friend. In fact I bought one just for this occasion. Monday was a blur. I told everyone they were annoying and made extra moaning sound effects. I walked much more and it hurt SO BAD. I got a melty cheese sandwich at a restaurant and didn’t eat it. That’s how you know I’m dying. I made my parents do my laundry. I am such a wench times two. Luckily my mom made fun of my ridiculous warddrobe and the fact that I am baby-sized. “We did two loads of laundry and it was 5 thousand items of clothing!” she remarked to the bf.
Tuesday I went to see the doc. Walking was less hurty. My toes turned purple and kind of chunky. I dubbed them little sausage toes. Doc took off the original bandages and was like surprise, stitches! Actually, no. They were only a surprise to me. I didn’t look too closely, but was impressed that the whole thing wasn’t too swollen or reminiscent of Frankenstein, especially with two screws in the right toe. I got some new lighter wrappings, but the stitches stay on for a week. Yay for more baths! 
To sum it up with words of wisdom from middle brother: Who breaks their foot intentionally? Only white (read: rich) people.
P.S. I can’t believe people get plastic surgery for fun.
P.P.S. Vicodin is the devil, and I have like 8 of them left if you want to sell ‘em to high schoolers. JOKES.
