So you’ve read the title. You think surely, SURELY, this is Nixalina being a little OTT with her words. Surely this is a PR stunt, an article fabricated to catch the eye and get some social remarks.
Trust me, I wish it was. But alas, it’s all true. Every word. Here is the blog post you never knew you needed, but you’re going to read it all in morbid fascination anyway.
Ready? Let’s begin.
It’s Christmas Eve. Phil and I (yes I am first naming him now because damn it, he needs to be named and shamed) are all dressed up to head out for festive drinks with his best mate. We had a couple of bottles of Prosecco at home as the warm up, and given that we’re both lightweights, by the time we head out we’re pretty tipsy. Here we are, all happy and tipsy ‘n’ shit:
We go out for food, more drinks, some dancing and have a merry ol’ time. Come early hours, we call it quits.
THAT is when we should have gone straight to bed. Well technically, we did go to bed…
Drunk and excited for Christmas Day, we decided to have Christmas sex. Because if you can’t make love on Christmas Day, is it even Christmas? It must have been around 1am by this point, so not that late.
This is where I can’t really explain, to myself or anyone else, why the next sequence of events happened. Sigh. But they happened.
We decided it would be a good idea for Phil to go get his barber cut-throat razor, the one he uses for his facial hair, and kinda use it somehow during the bedroom fun. I can’t even remember the aim of the game in all honestly – but I guess some kind of dominant bedroom behaviour? I dunno. We DID NOT use it! It was more for show. But even typing that out makes no sense because I really do not get turned on by sharp metal objects. All I can say is, at the time, drunk and horny, it made perfect sense to us.
For reference, this large metal sharp object here is a barber’s blade. It’s important to note, for later on, that the razor is designed to fold in and close into the handle, thus not being exposed and potentially dangerous.
So he shows a razor off, for reasons I can’t even remember now (this really is getting worse and worse) and after putting it away, we have sex. The lights are off, all is good.
But then, I feel this weird stinging pain in my foot. Phil is currently in between my legs, so I casually reach down to my left foot where the stinging is coming from, only for it to feel really wet. Why is my foot wet? Did we spill alcohol? I push Phil off me (sorry dude) and ask him to turn the lights on because my foot is hurting a bit and my leg is wet…
And then that’s when we see it. Blood, everywhere. There is a big gash in my dark grey duvet cover through to the duvet, and against the grey I see, what sadly confirmed to be, the end of my little toe on the bed. Nail included. My little toe is sliced clean off, blood is down my leg and foot, the duvet is spliced and the end of my toe is now in my hand.
Enjoy this for a second…
What happened after this is somewhat of a blur, but mostly the conversation went something like:
“WTF YOU’VE CUT MY LITTLE TOE OFF! WHY DIDN’T YOU CLOSE THE FUCKING RAZOR UP?”
“I swear I did. I did close it up, I made sure I did.”
“IF YOU HAD CLOSED IT UP, MY LITTLE TOE WOULDN’T CURRENTLY BE IN MY HAND NOW WOULD IT?”
“I swear I honestly closed it properly.”
“SO YOU SAYING I MANAGED TO OPEN IT UP WITH MY LEFT FOOT, DURING SEX, AND CUT MY OWN TOE OFF?”
You get the jist. I gave up the argument through sheer pain, and we managed to bandage it up to try stop the bleeding. In my still-drunk but also in agony state, I forced us both to open our Christmas presents. After all, he had just cut my little toe off. I deserved something fun to do. After presents and painkillers, I had to try sleep with my legs propped up against the headboard because the blood was still rife, so we needed to ensure I didn’t bleed to an early grave. Nobody wants that on Christmas morning.
You think I’ve been through enough by now, right? The story doesn’t stop here…
I woke up, hungover AF, in agony and remembered I am missing the end of my toe. I didn’t realise how important it was, until I lost it. I couldn’t walk properly because of the pain, and whilst it was fully bandaged, Phil says we need to change the dressing before we go to my family’s house for Christmas.
So he goes to remove the bandage. And the pain becomes INTOLERABLE. You want to know why?
Because we were drunk, we used cotton wool to cover the wound. Then a bandage over the top. The wound had started to heal over during the night and THE COTTON WOOL WAS STUCK TO THE TOE. Literally, stuck. Every time Phil tried to remove the wool, it was agony beyond agony, because the wool had healed into the wound.
Just take a moment, would ya? Feel my pain.
So, he says we have to soak it off. By this point, I wanted him to chop the entire foot off, just to stop the pain.
He gets the kitchen sink plastic bowl, fills it with freezing cold water to numb some of the pain, I have to dip my entire foot into ice water and Phil then proceeds to gently pull away threads of congealed cotton wool and my fucking skin and blood, as I cry in agony. All my fam and friends are texting me Merry Christmas and I thought, fuck off all of you.
Rebandaged minus any fricking cotton wool, we have to hurry up and somehow make me look half-decent before we go to see my family. When we arrive, I look white as a ghost and I can’t walk. I am in giant slippers because that’s the only thing I could fit over my bandage. So then my mother starts asking the questions but HOW, OH HOW do I explain this? So I simply say, I knocked my little toe onto the edge of my bed.
She seems to buy it, for now, but my brother in law isn’t so easily won over. He fucking knows something kinky went down.
SO we all finally sit down for Christmas Dinner around 1pm – Phil by this point gives no flying fucks about me or my toe because, FOOD – but I struggle to eat because I am in so much pain I feel sick. So I have to excuse myself and lie down on the sofa in the living room. Then I start crying and my sister says, show me a photo?
So I gave in. I showed her.
Then she shows my mother.
Then it all kicks off and they both demand I go to A&E immediately.
(mum, at this point, still thinks it’s from the edge of the bed, and I hope to this day, she believes that story)
Phil, in a right ol’ mood now because he barely got to put some chicken into his mouth, gets up from the table and drives me down to A&E. Pretty sure he drove me in silence, as if I had somehow coordinated all of this to just try keep him from his fucking Christmas dinner.
Then, we arrive at the hospital, and we have to try explain to the two male nurses how this happened, without making either of us feel any more humiliated than we already do. So we lie to them too.
One nurse said what and how was a barber’s cut throat razor doing near your foot? Do you have really hairy toes or something?
The nurses see the funny side knowing full well we were both lying through our teeth, bandage me up with an iodine patch which FUCKING KILLED and then lovingly sent us on our way.
Phil, finally, gets to eat his Christmas Dinner around 3pm, in peace.
I never got my little toe back.
And that, dear reader, is the blog post you never knew you needed.