Abjection Annals: Pinky Toe

The blister I sprouted from wearing heels in Brooklyn has now reached a pivotal shield-like state. Harriet Griswold urged me to tear it asunder tonight, rending it from my person, but I calmly apprised him of my intent to let it ripen naturally. As a medical doctor, I know its brittle translucency constitutes the penultimate stage prior to total abjection. I also know this because of the abhorrence Harriet expresses when in its ambiguous, boundary-defying presence. For example, when I placed the skin frond a full two feet from his dessert plate in order to let it bask in the radiant lamplight, he shrilled, “Don’t let it touch my cookie!”