Glad to Be You
Of course you don't have two warts on your foot in the first place because lovely, kempt people don't have warts is what I'm thinking. You didn't need to Google image-search them and then spend a half an hour examining the divergence of your footprint in order to diagnose yourself with, well, warts. Of course even if you did have two warts on your foot and you bought the Dr. Scholl's Extra-Strength Medicated Wart Removing Pads, you would have understood within at least the first couple of days that something was wrong. You would have noticed the warts persevering unheeded instead of happily applying the sticky cushioning donuts to your sole day after day only to shake the box weeks later and say to your partner, "What's this?" Your partner would not have come over and taken the sheet of dots from your hand, would not have patted your head and said, "Um, honey? Those are the medicated disks." And you would not have groaned, with two wholly untreated warts on your foot and no more cushioning donuts, "Maybe that's why they weren't working."
Then you wouldn't have opened your bread box to find no fewer than 20 molding heels of bread because over time your family would have learned that, if nobody's going to eat them, you should toss them out to the birds instead of preserving them like a museum exhibit curated around the theme of your own ineptitude.
Nor would you have lain in your children's bed while said children piled eleven sticky little glow-in-the-dark bugs into your belly button, holding your tummy in two fists and shaking so that the bugs looked like they were erupting from a volcanic navel.
Because you have a little self respect, right? So you also would never engage in a conversation with your seven-year-old son about how much money someone would have to pay you to throw a poopy diaper in your face. You wouldn't say "It depends what kind of poop," because, of course, you wouldn't do it for any amount of money in the world. A poopy diaper in your face! Who would talk about such a thing with a child? Let alone entertain various sums! You would certainly never say, "A thousand bucks? Just a regular turd, but sealed up inside and the tabs stuck down and everything? Sure." And when your daughter finally chimed in, jumping up and down on the mattress with excitement and glee, "What about poop smeared right in your nostrils for fifty dollars?" you wouldn't need to draw the line there because you never would have had the chalk in your hand to begin with. Even if your daughter fell to the ground laughing and cried, "I would do it for free!"
This daughter, here.