The guy downstairs is an asshole. I'm pretty sure I've told yall, but in case I didn't, he's an asshole. Today he was beating on his little dog, and when I say little dog, I mean this thing is about half the size of my cat. Maybe less than half. Usually when I hear that little dog squawking and him stomping around yelling, I give one swift kick to the floor with my heel. This is usually enough to make him stop. The first swift kick heeded no results this time, so I decided that a turbo-kick was in order. I turbo-kicked right into a support beam or something, because it felt like solid concrete against my bare heel. The pain was awful, it knocked me down with a thud that was plenty loud enough to delay the dog beating. I couldn't walk on it, so I layed down with Mads and forced her to take a two hour nap with me. Eh, she needed it anyways. So when we woke up, I figured my heel was pretty much healed (haha), because I couldn't feel any pain just sitting on the couch. The second I stood up, I fell right back on my ass. I think it's broken. I'm not kidding, I have a really high pain tolerance, but this shit really hurts, so it is most obviously broken. I haven't figured out how to get to the emergency room, since I can't even figure out how to get down the hallway (I've been crawling every where), but the second Jeffrey gets home, he will be helping my crippled ass down the stairs and straight to the medical center.
If it is broken, what kind of total dumbass does that make me? I turbo-kicked my heel into splinters. It's almost a funny story. Almost.