My foot is the color of a squashed grape.

What fucking retards during the 1920's decided that the appropriate depth for stairs was six inches? And--as if that wasn't enough--decided to make an overhang on each stair, creating a death trap for any and all who pass over them?

My heart aches for the poor women of this period who had to wear such ghastly cruel shoes as the current fashions of their day dictated, and who then attempted to walk, daily, upon stairs of this sort, prolly carrying trays of food and bags of laundry for sadistic children and lazy, disgusting husbands all the while. No wonder so many of them would be "taken ill," "fall ill," "take to their beds," or whatever they would say back then. With death-trap stairs of that sort presenting a constant sick sort of domestic obstacle course, I'd want some downtime in my bed as well, or possibly a trip to "summer" (don't you love how it was a verb then?) in a warmer climate like Arizona, where the "good humours" of the air would supposedly heal the ailing woman--

or was it the lack of split-level dwellings in those Southwestern towns with plenty of space for sprawl, and nary a sicko staircase in sight?

At any rate, I pelted down one of these "charming" little staircases the other night, wrenching just about every bit of homeostatic stability out of my body that was left, and only catching myself out of some desperate reflexive action; but the four stairs that I did the splits on were enough to begin a slow-burn bruise from my shin down to the toes themselves. It's a miracle nothing's broken and that there was barely any blood. The bruise is only just starting to show, but when it's in full bloom, damn, it'll be a sight to see. I could charge admission.

Consistently fascinated by my body's ability to fuck up and still persist.