One day Michael came in complaining about a speed bump on the highway. I wonder who he ran over then?

I miss my shoes. My lushy green Kate Spade loafers, the pink and brown chair upholstery flats, my hideous and ragged but sinfully comfy Uggs, my obnoxious 80s-pink 3-inch tweed stilettos that I can't walk in, my sage-y corduroy tennies. All beautiful. I miss you shoes, but this is not the place for you. Here you will be scarred by gravel, smeared with mud, and scuffed by tiny swinging Jamaican feet. I'd rather know that you are safe in my closet. Although I bet you spend more time touring NKC school libraries than chilling in the closet--which is fine as long as you don't see the inside of Maggie's mouth (oh how I mourn you, black ankle boots!). I might miss my shoes less if I could make cookies. Alas, I am lacking the ingredients, a car to get more ingredients, a store that sells missing ingredients, and the income to buy the ingredients that the store that I can't get to doesn't sell. You can take your pumpkin cheesecake and shove it, Paula Dean.