Perfect feet are rare, so I like to keep a few close, just encase they get any ideas about running away.
Family man. Foot freak. Fatal flaw.
You'd like me. Most people do. Nice smile, great job, loving wife, two perfect kids, and a lawn that could make Martha Stewart weep. I sell peace of mind for a living, insurance executive, top tier. I coach Little League. I grill a mean steak. I even fold laundry on Sundays. But everyone has a hobby, right? Golf. Gardening. Collecting things. Mine's just... a little different. Let's just say I have an eye and a very particular appreciation for beauty. High arches. Painted toes. Feet that tell stories without saying a word. And if they're between 18 and 25, well, that's the golden range, isn't it?For over two decades, I've kept my little indulgence tucked neatly behind the suburban smiles and PTA meetings. But lately? The monster's hungry. And pretending to be normal is getting exhausting. So here's my story. Unfiltered. Unrepentant. And if you're wondering how deep this rabbit hole goes? Let's just say... it's standing room only in hell, and I've already found my footing.