When the sanatorium (isn't that where uninsured crazy people get sent?) goons come to cart me away to the loony bin and someone sticks a microphone in my face (because I'll of course be famous by then. No idea why I'm so poor.) and asks, "What happened? What finally drove you over the edge?" I'll wrestle free of the shackles, grab the mike and in my best gravely drooly voice I'll slur, "It was the shoes! My children's shoes! Oh, the misery of missing shoes!"