Feet are quite the gross little blighters, aren’t they? Oh, I know people have fetishes about them, so clearly they’re not gross to all, but mine? Dear Lord, I know you granted me with hard skin on my feet for a reason, it’s just that I can’t work out what it is or for what purpose. Still, although you work in mysterious ways, I’m going to mess about with your plan and remove that hard skin that’s plagued me for many years now.
“Damn you, skin,” Em said, giving it evils.
It started with a Ped Egg. You know, one of those little thingies that looks like a cheese grater. You hack away at your feet in the hope that you’ll have gloriously smooth skin afterwards, and I imagine you do if the skin you’re trying to get rid of isn’t ten inches thick. Exaggeration, but you know what I mean. Anyway, after seeing the PE didn’t work as well as I’d thought it would, I bought a hand sander.
“Yes,” I said to myself at the time of spotting it on the shop shelf, “I think you’ll do nicely. And I’ll name you Simon. Simon the Sander.”
I got home, even took a picture of
the damn thing Simon and put it on Facebook—such a
life milestone that it had to be documented for all to see, like images of my
dinner, a delivery or shit like that, you know the drill—then busted open the
packet and took myself out into the garden to sand away the nasty and bring on
the soft and the beautiful.
It didn’t work.
“You’re a useless piece of shat, Simon! What kind of sander are you if you don’t deliver what your package promises, hmm?”
|This little bustard is now in the bin.|
So I took the advice of putting Vicks on my feet, then socks, and going to sleep. In the morning, which happens to be today, I soaked my Vicky feet and got quite excited at the fact that yes, today would be the day that my trotters would be pretty. After soaking, I had a think about what I could use to scrape away the rather unsightly “mush” the skin had now become. My mind went to the PE, and, as is the case with word association, I came up with “potato peeler”. Oh yes, I was going to win this battle!
PP in hand—does anyone else find that childishly amusing? Pee pee. Giggle—I put it to work only to find it clearly prefers spud skin to mine. It didn’t do a bloody thing. Instead, I scraped it away, and although I got quite a bit of mush off, there was still a load of hardness beneath. See, I told you it was ten inches thick.
I’ve now come to the decision I need something else—something I used in the past with great results.
“An electric sander, yes, that’s the ticket. A beast of a machine that will give me exactly what I want with minimal effort. Contorting into a pretzel to get at the various areas wasn’t fun earlier.”
Now, if I can persuade Hub to drive me into town so I can purchase one, I may well have pretty feet before this bloody day is out!
|Nightmare-inducing mannequin having a bit of a kip.|
On a side note, Hub said I didn’t snore at all last night. So yay for Vicky doing a good job there! Hopefully, this will prevent Hub from recording me while I sleep then replaying the snores back to me in the morning. It’s rather disturbing to hear yourself sounding like a walrus with a stubbed toe.
Good day, dear readers, and if you’re lucky enough to have perfect feet,
God damn you I’m a
jealous daughter of a bitch about it that’s really lovely!
On another note, as promised I have a free book out for you today should you wish to read a bit of saucy humour.
BLURB: After I’d tapped out a response in the comments section of an online newspaper article regarding
slimming pills, I was swept from my life as a lonely wedding planner to be named The Pink Pill Diet Woman. Once the pills had worked their magic, I earned the name of Glamour Girl, and my life became an endless round of TV, radio and newspaper appearances, with stretches of boredom that led to me fantasising about my hunky security guard.
He was sexy as sin and out of my league, but a girl could dream, couldn’t she? And dream I did, any chance I got. I longed for him to slide into bed with me and treat me to a night of passion I’d never forget, but how the devil would I get him there? Management had forbidden us to interact as anything other than what we were—Glamour Girl and her bodyguard. But as well as dreaming, I had a naughty streak. Rules be damned, I was going to break them. He had a pearl necklace I wanted draped around my neck—and I was going to get it.
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