I bought you because you look good underneath pants. You are bad ass boots, the kind that Agent Scully started wearing season five so she didn't look like a diminuative feeb with pumps and dress pants. You make me look professional. You add precious inches to my height. You are stylish, yet affordable. Buffy would be proud to call you hers.
So what I can't figure out is, how you can look so good on Buffy, enabling her to do kick flips and karate moves while terrorizing demons and staking vamps, while on me, you cause painful blisters that would, I'm sure, cause even the Slayer to bite her lip in pain in cases where she must, you know, walk.
Your heels aren't that high! I'm not tottering! And yet, my feet hurt! They hurt so bad. They asked me to say "Wha's up, yo?" to you.
They don't understand why on earth you would hurt them. They've been nothing but good to you! Why, without them, you'd still be on display at Aldo's, looking forlornly out the window waiting for some kind-hearted tootsies to walk in off the street, size you up and say "Yes! Those ones please!" to the cashier.
I've worn you too many times to return you, and you are so devilishly handsome that I fear I would rather suffer than refuse to wear you until you'd learned your lesson.
Maybe we can compromise? If you give just a little and let my dogs rest in peace, I'll give you a rest of three whole days a week! Think of it! That's one day more than I get! And I'll buy you that stark black polish you like so much and make sure you always look shiny and new! And odour eaters! My friend, you will have them in whatever scent you choose! I could cushion you with Dr. Scholls as well. You'd like that, wouldn't you? I knew you would!
If you are amenable to these changes, then I'm confident we can hammer out a deal and create a comfortable pied-a-terre environment where we can both dwell together in shiny, black harmony.
Sincerely,
Me and my feet.
