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Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Despite hearing the news that there now exists a Cat Cafe where you can drink tea or coffee and enjoy the company of a cat or two in Japan, I am saddened.

I have come to realize that I am very likely nearing the end of the road with my dyke shoes.

It's unnatural. You belong to me, I belong to you.

I'm not gonna play - I like a dykey shoe. I had always dabbled in them, but last year at this time I became a full-fledged convert. Now I have to say good bye to the very pair that taught me the fullness of this love.

After I render them fit for donation, I believe I will purchase a kazoo and play a little taps in reverence for the unbelievable comfort, speed, and agility they have afforded me as I walked to work or trolled the city streets in search of stage time.

For the past year, girls have walked all around me in platforms, stumbling into work at best, and looking like baby giraffes at worst, I was able to get where I had to go in comfort not even matched by being barefoot. Now I must find another partner to carry me down 2008.

I know it's Christmas, Zappos, but you need to stop playing your reindeer games already and put up a "dyke shoe" category. It would save a lot of shoe lesbians a lot of time.

Stop beating around the bush, Zappos.

This is risky, subjective territory - that I will concede. Because one woman's dyke shoe is another woman's casual pump. But I think we can all agree that just like human sexuality, dyke shoes exist on a continuum, and at its most extreme end would be...

I was so flummoxed I couldn't even spare the time to switch to the text tool. I know you come here for my Photoshop skillz.

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