Moist Agony

The shoes I rushed out of the house in are not as dry as I thought they were. Rain from Pride was lurking deep in the leather. Dear God, this is an unpleasant sensation. ~Squish.~ It's soaked through my socks. My physical comfort level is at dead zero. I can't go the whole work day like this. I give myself permission to slip down the street to Marshall's to buy sandals.

I couldn't wait til noon break....

I just need to say this:

Marshall's, through whatever secret sources it possesses, manages to gather the very ugliest shoes on the face of the earth and bring them together in one place. I swear unto you, look no further than Marshall's on Boylston if you happen to be costuming yourself as Hideous Resort Lady or Aging Cowgirl Prostitute.

I chose the sandals that least offended me, which are black and have a butch gladiator-girl look to them. I look ready to battle lions in a coliseum, but really I'm just glooming in my cubicle. $34.99, for fooke sake. At least they're dry. Like all sandals with a toe-split, they will break in one month and it will happen when I'm on an all-day outing somewhere with no place to buy replacents, and I will flap-flop behind the group and whine and everyone will wish I hadn't come along.

Thank you, Marshall's. You help me get my rant on every time.