The Legend of Bloody Foot

I have debated putting this story on the blog for more than a year. But since I’ve been doing all these videos, slacking on my blogging, and haven’t hit you guys with a real doozy in a while, I owe it to my millions of seven followers to share. You win.

It was July 2010–the week before my 27th birthday, and I met a friend out for “a casual drink or two” on a Thursday night. I wasn’t planning to stay out past 11. I think my hair was even in a ponytail. But the vodka sodas were going down easy, we were having a good time chatting at the bar, and then…a guy walked in that sealed my night’s fate. We’ll call him Brad.

I knew Brad through a mutual friend and we used to sorta’ flirt but I hadn’t seen him in years. So we had a big, “Ohmygosh, how have you been??” greeting session, then moved right into flirting territory. And stayed there. We shut down Ormsby’s, then headed over to Northside Tavern for more boozing and drunken dancing. At last call, Brad offered to take me home and the rest of the night played out like this:

  1. Brad drove me home.
  2. I invited him inside or he invited himself (either way, he ended up in my apartment).
  3. We made our way to my, um, bedroom and may or may not have made out…and stuff.
  4. Somehow a nail polish bottle was in my bed (still not sure how that happened) and I tossed it across the room.
  5. Rest of the night is a little fuzzy.
  6. The next morning, I woke up and Brad was gone.

I mean, whatever. Maybe he had to get home for something. I stumbled out of bed and immediately saw THIS on my floor.

Wow. So the nail polish bottle WASN’T shatterproof like I had assumed in my intoxicated state. I kinda’ giggled to myself thinking that it looked like blood. Why that’s funny, I’m not sure.

Then I saw the real blood.

Blood droplets ALL over my bedroom floor. From one end of the room to the other.

Slightly horrified, I made my way to the bathroom where there was a trail of dried blood leading the way. In the bathroom, I saw remnants of what looked like a crime scene: streaks of brownish red all over the white tile floor and a hand towel tossed in the corner. Someone had tried to clean up the massacre.

I checked myself. No injuries. I checked Dewey. He was fine, but acting VERY strange. Like he’d seen something go down. I had to get to a meeting, so (after walking Dewey), I shut the bathroom and bedroom doors and figured I would deal with that shit later.

The whole day I was coming up with scenarios, most of them involving Brad bleeding in a ditch somewhere or at the Grady Hospital ER. I figured he wouldn’t be calling me anytime soon.

When my head finally cleared that night, I decided to play detective and really get to the bottom of this. And I did…when I found this.

A giant shard of the polish bottle. Brad must have stepped on it, sliced open his foot, nearly bled to death in my apartment, then left.

I didn’t have his number. I didn’t have the number of our mutual friend. I couldn’t find him on Facebook. This wasn’t good. I was in no place financially to get sued because my cosmetics paralyzed a random dude from the ankle down.

So I just had to forget about it and hope I saw Brad again one day.

Which I did…two weeks later at Front Page News. It was one of the happiest moments of my life, to see him alive and on his feet. We immediately recounted the incident (thank God he was laughing about it), and he confirmed that it was indeed the nail polish shard that sliced and diced his foot. I can’t remember if he had to get stitches or what (I was overserved that night as well), but he seemed fine. And not looking to sue me. He even wanted to exchange numbers. I put him in my phone as “Brad Bloody Foot.” Not that he ever called me.

I actually saw him at Music Midtown last weekend and the first thing he said to me was, “My foot still hasn’t fully recovered!”

Whether or not he was joking–I don’t even want to know.

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