Monday, May 28, 2001 [by:Katydid]

dreamlog

I'm hopping across 10th Avenue downtown because I've cut off my foot. Once I get to Powell's Tech Store, I make it to the counter to beg for help. I show them my foot, which is flopping around in my hand as I gesture with it. I tell them my husband cut it off and to call the police. How else will I get out of my abusive marriage? At one point I get curious to see what the cross-section of my own foot looks like. Tendons, bones, fat deposits are all there like they should be. I don't look down, though—I'd rather not see the stump.