Love

I can't stop thinking about these shoes. I really can't. I know, I know. How impractical, tacky even. Giant puff leather hearts, laminated wood-effect blue platforms, what? Where would I wear them? If I wore them to work, I'm sure building security would be after me again. And at a challenging 5.1 inches, street lights would turn red while I was still mid-cross, leaving me in an awkward situation in the midst of angry commuters. And probably ticketed by my motorcycling mustached nemesis, Officer Douche, for holding up traffic. With an additional fine for violating city standards of good taste.

I was born with a eye for garish footwear. My father fondly recalls a day when my pint-sized self accompanied my parents while shoe shopping. I threw a tantrum when my mother refused to purchase a pair of rainbow glitter peep toes I carefully selected for her from the bland rows of tasteful calf leather. I don't remember this, but I do recall stealing glittery malachite and quartz crystals from my pre-school science teacher and burying them in the dirt in the school's front yard. I guess I just like shiny things.

I really need those shoes. Marc Jacobs, je t'aime.