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I remember the day I threw out half of my shoes. It was during a really practical period. My boyfriend at the time, Jurgen, who did unfortunately turn out to be a Polish assassin and was forced to greet cold death under point of insistence by my 14" hunting blade, was a very practical man. I remember even, as his deceitful, traitorous face squirmed in contortions of pain upon my kitchen floor, he asked me not to hunt down his wife and kids. Very practical, Jurgen.
Well, he did make this great point about shoes. He pointed out that if I spent all my life either running or fighting, I only needed to wear running shoes and steel-toed combat boots. That was the night that Jurgen breathed his treacherous last on my cold linoleum floor; I remember this, because the lady at the Salvation Army couldn't figure out how those suede pumps came to be covered in blood.
Jurgen really had a big effect on me. Swear to God, look in my closet right now and all you're going to find are running shoes and combat boots. That, and this fine tube toessel. Now, a steel-tipped combat toessel, that would be something. If Yossel weren't such a wuss, I'd have him make one.
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