to be dead...

if my feet could cry, they would be bawling right about now. that is how it is when it comes to prolonged hours standing in boots, even with the given breaks in between. and whoever does dare say different that such standing is an "easy job", will be stabbed in the eye with those very heels, with a little poke, no, make that a rough shove up where the sun does not shine.

the best bit, is that there is another two more days of twelve gruelling hours of cramped torture. if my feet could have a facial expression put to them, they would probably have that look of excruciation when in constipation from the brutality they have been put through. then again, perhaps, and just perhaps, my feet were just made to cry, or worse, die, god forbid.

bear with me my dear crying to be dead feet, the worst has yet to come. when it is all over, those tears will be dried, and nightmarish fears of broken toes will stay aside. until then, the foot tub, thick socks, bandaids, foot padding and foot rubs are on call, for you to beckon at will, so please do me a big favor, and not die on me just yet.