Dear Left Foot,
Please accept my sincerest apologies, I’m fully aware you’ve taken a beating worse than Jesse Pinkman in the first two seasons of Breaking Bad. And I truly am sorry.
If it’s not my life long curse of dropping like a bag of sand when I push myself past a soft jog, it’s twisting it on a hike after being mesmerized by a magical dear and then almost breaking two toes on a shuffle to the bathroom this morning.
Normally this wouldn’t be such a big deal but after spraying the bathroom with tiny beads of death because my self rejects anything too girly (necklaces) and dripping hot sauce all over my shirt and skirt I’ve decided I’ve inflicted enough mental and physical pain on myself. But more importantly, on you, left foot.
I know you’ve felt my annoyance with you at the gym, when you and Left Leg don’t seem to pull the same weight as Right Leg, or when you fall asleep when you should be supporting me in my struggle to tighten up (not to be confused with the Black Keys song). But please believe me when I say, I’m not hurting you on purpose. Hurting you, hurts me, Foot.
Can we work together? I don’t want to develop that weird thing where you feel your foot is not a part of your own body so you wait until you’re alone, freeze it to kill it and then get rushed to the emergency room where they take the foot off and you secretly feel victorious but also footless.
Left Foot, let’s make this right together.
Love, The Entire Rest of The Body