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Fashion Victim
I may need to be put down.
We might can get away with just amputating my feet, confiscating my shoe collection and adopting my precious pairs out to good, loving homes. I’m hoping that’s an option.
I finally did it. I knew, I knew, the minute I received them as a gift that I would forget. I’d walk right out the damn door and into the Wal-Mart parking lot looking like the wrong end of a nursing ward.
I lugged around five different stores the monstrosity on my feet, my head hung low, trying desperately to shop for what I needed without finding eye contact with anyone.
Of course, I fit right the fuck in at Sam Walton’s Place. Like that’s any consolation. It’s an abomination and why I didn’t buy any for myself in the first fucking place. Because. I. knew. I. SO. Knew.
I knew, for certain, that the day would come when I would feel lazy and just grab my purse and run out the door. Pull into the lot, find a space and kill the ignition. Only to find?
I’d walked out with my Crocs on.
Kill me now.