I’ve had an obsession with high-heeled shoes since I was 6 years old.
Back then, it was about the power of being able to walk in something that confounds many.
Now, it’s being able to own something that eludes most.
The art of working a stiletto isn’t merely heel-toe, balance. It’s making the body operate as a machine, as a symphony of motion. It’s self-awareness.
The power of a well-executed heel is unfathomable. Every movement appears graceful, even if it wouldn’t warrant a second glance in flats. There’s seduction in every step and men and women alike can’t help but acknowledge the beauty of an effortless skyscraper strut.
Now, I’m all for function; I walk almost everywhere and when I’m running bullshit errands all over town, I’d rather retreat into whatever’s blasting from my headphones and not have to focus my attention on the purposefulness of my steps.
But I do have a flair for the dramatic. And nighttime is when I come alive. When the sky is velvet and the stars are scattered stone and the air tastes like potential.
At night is when my shoes come out to play and break bitches’ spirits.
And after a long night of making memories on my feet, I’d be more than happy to make more off them.
Heels still on, of course.
Woman: Why, yes. I would.
Man: Here’s five pounds, then.
Woman: Five pounds! What do you think I am?
Man: We’ve established that. Now we’re talking about price.” —Man: George Bernard Shaw. Woman: foolish whore.
then i hear some strange ass noise,
but you know, i figure it ain’t nothin
but then i hear that shxt again
so then i get up like this
and then i realize im just hallucinating so,
im good, im good, back to chlln.
LMFAO I love this retarded shit.
I tend to run with people who, upon first glance, you wouldn’t think were sexual deviants or reckless thrill-seekers. But that’s how I like it.
“You can tell a book by it’s cover.” If a story can be truly encapsulated in a picture and a paragraph, why would I read it? Plus, skimming the basics isn’t an appropriate strategy for reading people.
But I digress.
I became fully aware of the ludicrousness of my crew on one particular occasion. That night we all got drunk but my friend wanted to party a little harder. This particular friend comes from an extremely wealthy family, is bright (if a bit lazy and over-indulged) and beautiful. She went to the best private schools her whole life, she has incredible connections… and she aspires to be a dominatrix. She is the kinky schoolgirl grown men dream of.
So because she is ingenious in the worst way, she crushed her anti-depressants and chopped them up like cocaine.
That’s not even the good part. She was grinding it and drawing lines with the Gold AmEx her father gave her and her health insurance card.
I love irony.