Of all the adventures I've had lately, I never would've guessed this would be the one to gain its own three-part (and sure to continue) saga.

Popular opinion of those who've recently seen my foot seem to agree that I did *not* actually remove anything (beyond the top few skin layers) when I finally sucked things up Wednesday night and spent quality time with a sterilized pair of tweezers. Instead, I seem to have shoved the shard so far into my foot that I cannot actually feel it there anymore.

(Side note: part of me wonders if maybe it's just dried blood or something from when I performed personal surgery Wednesday, seeing as I never actually bled then, but no one will know until more poking ensues.)

Seeing as this was discovered last night/this morning at around 1 a.m., it was far from the ideal time to try Round 2, no matter if I had a willing doctor. The slaphappiness of the evening deterred me from offering a needle to someone who had recently been completely collapsed, laughing about the word "ferret" and sound effects of raptors that actually sound like screaming girls just minutes prior. It's only now that I'm so fully aware that I should've just done it last night, when my own hysterical tiredness would've been the perfect anesthesia.