Two weeks ago, I got myself two new pairs of shoes. The one pair of causalish shoes I had for work had become hobo shoes that hobos would sniff at, so it was necessary. And besides, it’s the sort of thing I almost never do for myself. May as well treat myself nice sometimes.
So, I decided I wanted some Docs. Nothing crazy, just the basic Doc Marten shoe. I went to an actual Doc Marten store, and got my two pair in the same very basic style, one in black, one in brown, and they’re exactly what I wanted, and I love them.
The black ones squeak.
Not just a little squeak, either. It’s an “I heard you coming from a literal half-block away” sort of squeak. From both shoes. You can practically see concussive waves radiating from my feet with every step. I wore the brown ones the other day, walked up behind one of my employees, and she was surprised it was me because she hadn’t heard me coming.
So, while I love my shoes, I’ve begun to feel like the leather goods equivalent of Captain Hook, looking around every corner for the vengeance-crazed steer that’s been tracking me through Chicago by the “SQUIIIITCH! SQUIIITCH!” sound I make wherever I go, the end.
Funf Euro Fuß Lange
There’s a lot about me that needs work. I’m aware of this. But. BUT.
One thing I’m *not* doing is falling asleep and snoring on the office shitter.
So, unlike a human I just encountered, I have that going for me.
My new standard for it maybe being a bit too cold for my liking is when I’m standing inside of a train car and have to don a glove so I can hold onto a metal rail without needing an after-ride skin graft.
I almost wrote a really long post about an idea I had for the worst comic ever. The good guy would be called The Paleodontist and the bad guy would be called Glutinous Maximus.
I decided to eat something instead because I’m clearly hallucinating.