ME AND THE DAMN TENT STAKE

AUG 5 or 6: Apparently we have some sharp-ass tent stakes. They are the good kind, and they do their job well, but as far as I’m concerned they are evil. Last week I had the pleasure of splitting my toe open on one of them—a nice deep triangular gouge that spilled a good two-tablespoons of blood into my flip-flop. Yes, Zach had warned me (repeatedly) that the ground was too hard to pound the stakes all the way in, and he tried to bury them with rocks, but—by the time it got dark and I was shuffling things into the tent to get ready for bed, I'd forgotton all about his warning...PAIN!...I nursed my mangled toe all week, and it was healing up nicely until last night, when I did the exact same damn thing on the exact same damn toe and MAN….
 

THE LESS BLOODY, MORE PAINFUL SECOND TIME AROUND...

...it hurt even more the second time, which I didn’t think was possible. I almost cried. Would have, but there were other people around. It kept me up half of the night, throbbing away. I know its unbecoming to talk about small wounds as if they were a big deal, but, I figured--this has GOT to be good for something!

And I know I should have put my sneakers on, but it was hot and flip-flops feel good after pedaling all day in closed-toed shoes. It’s really gross, you should know. Fleshy and bloody and NASTY. Send a prayer for the middle toe on my right foot, and pray that I learn my lesson this time because Zach (with his charming brand of tough-love) has threatened to cut it off the next time this happens…