It's not funny being poked at

After feeling the excruciating pinch for the third time in two days, that was the last straw. I turned it upside down. I squeezed it with all my might. I stomped it. I even got additional help from my flatmate. No avail. I was still being poked. Finally, today after some black magical luck, I found the damn culprit - a needle conveniently stuck in my Winnie-the-Pooh bedroom slippers. Nicely hidden, its sharp edge conveniently pointing upwards. I'm glad it's over and all that remains is three redish-needle-sized-poked holes on the sole of my left foot.

I knew I couldn't have been voodooed.