People ask you how you’re doing. If they’re just acquaintances, you
say, fine, how was your weekend. If you actually like them, you step
it up and describe how some asshole San Francisco cabbie nearly ran
you over on Market Street, or you complain about the salsero with the
dreadful body odor you encountered Monday night.
But nobody, nobody, gets to hear about what’s truly consuming you.
Some enormously heavy motherfucker stepped on your left big toe five
months ago, and turned it a dark and bloody purple underneath the
nail. At first, it was an interesting addition of color to your life,
but one day, you touched it as you came out of the shower and it
wiggled. Since then, the impending loss of your toenail has eclipsed
every spiritual revelation, new lust, exquisite meal, frustrating bug,
financial mishap, lost employee badge, unacceptable dance partner, or
near-death by vehicular homicide you had, or could have had.
Any day now.
A goose-girl once confessed her troubles to an iron stove and the
king, eavesdropping, took it upon himself to kill her tormentor.  You, on the other hand,
will confess your troubles to a blog nobody reads, and pray that someone
comes to rescue you with a bottle of stem cells. Nobody will, but you
feel a bit better now.
PS Thank god, it’s growing back.
 Grimm fairy tale #89: http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm089.html