After careful inspection and increasing pain, all signs minus sound medical fact point that my toe is probably broken.  It’s the pinky toe, not the most important, and since my wise father told me that if I couldn’t remember  how I hurt it, it wasn’t that serious, I’ve decided not get the x-ray.  It wasn’t until careful inspection from Richie, who has become my go-to-the-doctors-this-is-serious barometer, that he said the most horrifying words – “You know you won’t be able to wear heels for awhile if it’s broken, right?”  Why don’t you just shoot me now and put me out of my misery like a lame horse?  I realize I have an unnatural attachment to my footwear, but seriously, not wear heels?  To me, they are symbol of all things sexy and womanly.  No matter how I feel inside, I slip a pair on, say for instance, a leopard print peep-toe, and the world is again right.   We all have vanity about some things, and for me it is all about the shoes.  Some people it’s their musicality, hair, whatever.  I think it’s essential to my everyday survival – not only for the mental warfare but also because I’m really short.  I need them to be eye level to most people and to get the music on the top shelf. 

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