I say BiggyToe

Ok, I'll bite and jump on the Toetrian big dirty toe. My guy, let us all come together to ask: when you said in your live "I bring stuff to the table," meaning you bring things into a relationship, what is it that you bring? That hoarded storage unit does not count. Social media doesn't count, by your own words—it doesn't pay your bills. And your bills are only two things: the junk you buy is outrageous. A relationship is 100/100. Your health isn't good, so that man will one day, in the next year, take care of you after something happens because you won't go to the doctor looking like the underneath of my big toe after spending 45 minutes scrubbing myself, woman—with all due respect. What is it that you bring to the table? "Bruhhh," I have spent half my life with the same man. We’ve done it all together. We had our first son homeless yup, unlike you and your family, I said nope, we bought a home. I quit work, but guess what? I cooked, cleaned, took care of the kid, didn’t sit my fat ass on a couch all day. I almost died (I'm a victim of a vilent crime) and still got up and did what I had to. Got pregnant again, decided I wanted to clock in. He took care of the kids. I went back to school. We both busted our asses with work. He's got a good job. I have a good job. We own properties for extra income. So I ask, my wrinkly, fungus-filled toe—WHAT SR DO YOU BRING TO THE TABLE!