Dear Prudence, My Foot Hurts

old leftie. I walked into class with the greatest of ease at 9 am, but walking out at 10:50 was another story entirely. Somewhere in the span of Contemporary Civilizations, the inner arch of my left foot started pmsing like a megabitch.

I just took a break from writing to slap the sole of my foot a few times and yell "stop hurting!" It didn't work, OF COURSE. NOTHING IN MY LIFE WORKS OUT.

That's something I said last night, as well, as I threw myself on my ottoman. I had just read for two straight hours and I still had at least three more ahead of me. So I fell onto my ottoman, groaned, rolled over so my ottoman was on top of me and I was on the ground, groaned, and then lay still for a while as I continued to groan.

And now all I ever do is give people newspaper clippings that I think might interest them.
examples:
1) the Che Guevara article implicit in my newest one-act, "Seriously, I Know You're Smart," given to Vlad (the teacher explicit in my newest one-act, "Seriously, I Know You're Smart")
2) the Lolita article from yesterday's Columbia Spectator, yet to be given to Alison, who loves Lolita
3) the Roving Reporter minterview with some girl who had a weird dream, yet to be given to the check-in period of Fruit Paunch rehearsals.

Foot? Do you still hurt?
Let me check.
Yes, and now I can feel where a bump has risen under the skin.
A bugbite, mayhap?
No, probably some sort of grotesque fungus that I've never heard of and only slightly deserve.

THIS IS RIDICULOUS.
NOTHING IN MY LIFE WORKS OUT.
gang way, ottoman