Following Clint into the house last night, I lost my grip on the screen door, which opens in the wrong direction—you kind of have to open it, then walk around it. The corner of it smacked across the top of my foot right-goodly-like. I commenced to swearing and hopping around the house, both laughing and wailing, while a concerned Clint wanted to know if it was bleeding.
Of course it wasn't bleeding; there wasn't so much as a blemish on the top of my foot when we retired.
I woke up to a goose-egg on top of my foot this morning though, and I am vindicated for the scene I made last night.
Cue the violins, please. All proper pity can be directed to the comments section.