Oh, Nancy Sinatra play me

I’m sure this comes as no surprise, but many of my boots were not made for walkin’. Oh, sure, I can walk about half a block in them before the bones in my feet cram together, and maybe two blocks before those bones completely crumble, and then there are the blisters and the bloody stumps that used to be my toes … but who really cares. I mean, sometimes a girl doesn’t want to be sensible. And when and where her shoes (or, rather, boots or sandals, because rare is the actual shoe that graces her foot) are concerned, well, this girl won’t hear of it. I believe that “sensible” and “shoes” have no business being in the same sentence, let alone juxtaposed next to each other. Or being on my feet.
Nonsense, you say?
Take a hike, I say!
(In your clumpy steel-toed boy boots and scrunchy socks!)
This entry is dedicated to my dear friend Kelly.