I may not be a foot fetishest like one Mr Quentin Tarantino, but I know for certain that right now he wouldn't be too enthused about my own right about now. An accident last night has left my foot more battered than bruised, but worse for wear nonetheless. Unlike Beatrix Kiddo I can wiggle my toes, but I've been bedridden all day near unable to walk. Good thing I received that first aid kit for Christmas a year back or else I'd be without bandages to wrap this thing up. Alternating between liberal excuses of the word "nap" (is two hours a nap or does it verge on sleep?), catching up on Norwegian found footage (somewhat) horror flick, TrollHunter, and episodes of Hart of Dixie, which is like Men in Trees, but swapping out Northern Exposure for Dawson's Creek. Naturally, it's campishly addictive and since it airs on the same channel as Ringer, I think we've found a double feature of ridiculous silliness. Episode four is particularly, ahem, memorable.
We hope to resume regular programming soon enough. But for now I must resume my bedridden duties. Quentin Tarantino can keep his feet.