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May 14, 2006
We're in the stodgy shoe store in Philadelphia to find loafers he can wear without socks. The mere thought makes me shudder, because earlier in the day he told me he's been plagued with (pause for cringe) toenail fungus. So now I'm forced to imagine crusty moldy mossy yellow-green toenails pressing against the reverse side of leather, yearning for fungal freedom. It's all I can do not to vomit.

Also vomitous are the shoes he selects and raves about. I'm not so secretly thrilled when they don't fit properly. I swear even his fucked-up fungus breathes a sigh of relief.