My foreword will a conscience-stricken apology for using yet another pun as a subject to an entry.
I hope everyone who didn’t have a Valentine this year gorged on Haagen Daz ice cream (leaving that disgusting Ben and Jerry’s crap in the freezer) and ended their night right with Wrath of Khan. For those of you who had a Valentine’s date, I hope your noxious, explosive flatulence problem took great tolls towards the early portion of the evening. Either way, the pink holiday is now over, and it’s time to start earning back the money you put into Hallmark.
As for me, I’ve been doing the grocery thing. It’s not exquisite, and actually can be defined as degrading and dehumanizing, but it’s a job, and I’ve got to save up so I can get the hell out of this peepee-soaked heck-hole.
There’s rarely a day I drive away from this house without uttering the term, “Holy Fuckwits,” and there are many reasons why this could be. For instance, evidently, I am not old enough to make the decision of when I need new shoes. My primary need for the item known as “shoes” in the first place, incorporates the covering of my feet for protection and comfort. The sneakers I have been wearing for months now serve that function perfectly. By some ingenious flourishing of wit, my mother has figured out a way to uncover a backdoor into my shoes, by contorting them in a way in which my feet never would, exposing a fissure that could allow moisture and outside invaders into the area in which my socks occupy. Her answer? Throwing the perfectly good pair of shoes away. The same shoes I wear every day.
Limited Edition Soap Shoes, which are no longer available in my size.
Fortunately, I salvaged them before stage two of garbage removal occurred.
The point of this is, and I summarize;
I am old enough to determine that, all things considered, my shoes are just fine the way they are for the time being.
It is winter. Winter will have an adverse effect on shoes, new shoes, doubly so. I would much rather watch my current shoes retire naturally, than botch up a brand new pair.
I primarily use shoes for work. I am not wearing my sneakers to fancy dinner parties. I’m using them as I put up stock at a welfare grocery store, where it is absolutely politically correct to say “You’re welcome,” to the customer, as it is our taxes that pay for their purchases. Somehow, I don’t think they will judge me if my shoes are slightly worn. And I mean slightly worn. I could sell them on Ebay for full price.
I suppose that isn’t saying much.
The whole point of this is, being three years after twenty, I should be trusted by the Grand Marshall of the Lowlands when it comes to my own shoes. This isn’t even the only qualm! This was just from the past two days. If anyone has any clue as to what drugs my mother might be on that would make her intolerable in this fashion, please, let me know.