Dear Pinky Toes,
Thank god for evolution, because I am ready for both of you to be evolved right the fuck off my feet. Sometimes I think your only function in life is to provide fleshy, yet highly sensitive, stumps that can be repeatedly thwacked into various pieces of furniture around the house.
Why do you even exist? It’s certainly not for balance, because my best friend Keith Mermon lost his left pinky toe in a bizarre kite-flying accident, and he can still walk just fine (although his skin is now permanently tinted light orange). It’s definitely not for cosmetic purposes. Sorry to be blunt, but you are pretty damn grotesque. All the other toes stand at perfect attention, sloping across my feet at a gentle and attractive angle with their nails looking well-manicured and nonthreatening. Then there’s the two of you, all slumped over and runty. You’re like the short ugly friend that tags along uninvited and never gets to go home with anyone at the bar while all your more attractive buddies are hooking up with sorority sluts.
Also, I wasn’t going to bring up your toe nails, but they simply can no longer be ignored. Seriously, they’re fucking disgusting. Left Pinky Toe, that razor-sharp sliver of hardened protein you call a nail could probably cut glass. And that yellow-ish gunk that’s been collecting beneath you for the last several years? Yeah, that’s fungus. And just so you know, females find it repulsive.
Evolution takes a long time, I understand that. But maybe God and/or Jesus could speed up the process just a little bit to get you eradicated from existence more efficiently. I’d like to be able to confidently move around my house without the ever-present fear of inducing seven seconds of excruciating pain by ramming you into the leg of our Ethan Allen coffee table.
Sometimes I consider inducing intentional frostbite so we can just get this whole ugly mess over with.
Gangrenously yours,
Jose Brando
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