I have another foot thing.
WHAT. THE. EFF.
(I'm trying not to blog like I talk in real life, because not only does my mother read this, but, zombies help her, she tells others about it, too. See, mama, I'm a good girl - I don't always talk like a sailor.)
(Kidding, mom. I don't care if you tell people.)
Anyway. Back to my foot. There is another lumpy thing about the size of a pen tip right next to where I had the last one removed. Even though they biopsied the last two little bastards (really, censorship only goes so far), the surgeon can't really tell me WHAT they are, or WHY they're there. I don't know why I didn't go to a podiatrist to start with, but that's my next step.
Oh yeah, I know why I didn't go to the podiatrist first, I thought it was a splinter. Which it apparently is not, unless the splinter had an army of friends and is slowly trying to win the war by giving me Alzheimer's. Or making me go broke with medical bills. Or making me walk unsteadily so I'll trip down the stairs. Maybe it's a three pronged approach?
Doesn't matter, the fact is, something in my foot is trying to kill me. Or drive me mad. One or the other.
I thought, hell, maybe it's plantar warts and my surgeon is an idiot. I looked them up online and while the written description sounds exactly like what I have, the pictures don't look like my foot thingies at all. My science guru, M2, says it's not warts because they would have been able to see it was a virus in the biopsy.
Did you know that warts are a virus? I didn't. Did you know that plantar warts come from being infected by HPV? As in human papillomavirus? As in the sexually transmitted disease? The one that causes genital warts and cancer?
For minute there, I thought maybe I had an STD on my foot. The doctor and M2 say no, but wouldn't THAT just be amusing since it keeps coming back to haunt me and if it was plantar warts it maybe could have been cured the first time.
Since I don't really frequent gyms or public pools, the only thing I could think of was, if I did have the stink foot, I'll bet it came from one of those little pedicure places. I'll bet all that chatting back and forth in a language I don't understand wasn't just, "Dumb American and her yucky feet!" and "Has she seriously never heard of a Ped Egg? There better be a big ass tip for this.".
Now I'm thinking there may have been a little, "I can't touch these feet again. Bob! Go grab that vile of HPV. A little case of stink foot will keep her outta here!!"