July 9, 2009
The night will be a rip-roarin' success because you're wearing the shiny black new shoes. The shoes that have been lying in wait in their box with the still-crisp corners, lounging beneath the crinkle of a magenta tissue paper blanket (don't think shroud, don't think shroud, don't think shroud), at long last, their debut. They're not made for walking, but you walk -- nay, a hybrid stroll-strut -- in them anyway, the better to rub the masses' already-dirty noses in their ever increasing inelegance. They won't witness your blistered, bloody, barefoot limp home hours later. They'll never be the wiser.