There’s no other way to describe it.
We live in a war-torn state here on Beach Street.
Lego shrapnel abounds. Lego bombs lurk around every corner. Tiny pieces lie in wait, sometimes for months, eager to inflict some damage on some poor, unsuspecting innocent.
It amazes me that neither Hilary nor I have ripped the plantar fascia on our feet bottoms via inadvertently stepping on those sharp suckers.
I live in fear of that scenario.
Creeping across the bedroom floor in total darkness for a bathroom run, delicately placing my feet on the floor with a dainty touch as though checking for land mines or a glacial fissure. Eyes wide trying to use my rods or cones to catch a glimpse of a luminescent piece of plastic before I wreck my foot on it and go hurtling headlong into the dog’s crate. Likely impaling myself on the metal frame, bleeding…
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