My Feet Fuckin Hurt, Man.

Dear Feet,

I don't think I like you anymore.

I know it's not a glamourous job, but you're feet, for gawd's sake. The stumps of my legs slap you to the ground, and you bear the weight and keep me mobile. Maybe you don't like the system, and maybe I don't blame you much for that, but if this is the case you should file a complaint with the U.F.U. (United Foot Union), making sure to fill out the form in blue ink only, copied in triplicate, mailing the goldenrod copy to head office, faxing the dandelion one to the branch, and retaining the lemon one for your records. Once your complaint has been formally lodged, you can expect a response in 12-68 weeks.

Until then, please know that this strike is illegal.

You, feet, are an integral part in my ability to walk. I know you feel your demands for lighter work and more rest seem reasonable, but my desire to reliably get to the toilet, for example, is also quite reasonable.

I used to depend on you, feet.

You provided me with a great service, walking me across cities, dancing me far into the night, kicking my way through many a fight...and in return, I plied you with the prettiest shoes, I let Jason rub you in all the right places, I treated you to salt foot baths and peppermint foot cream. I thought we had a great working relationship.

I guess I thought wrong.

You have revolted with excrutiating pain. You have covered yourselves with calluses and blisters. You have swollen yourselves to epic proportions. I can't even wear shoes anymore. I hope you're happy.

The muscles ache so much that I spend hours soaking them, and need Tylenol 3 just to sleep. I have been stoned for 12 days straight. Dr. Scholl is not a scab. He's ineffectual, but at least he tried. Jason is at his wit's end from listening to me cry and whimper day after day.

So, feet: step up.

I still have a lot of stomping to do.