Wednesday, June 08, 2016

Portaged the uggs to shed safety

The weekend just past pissed down here in Canberra; constant rain and our patio flooded a centimetre or two in places. Cold, nasty wet rain; I hates it.

I didn't want to risk any footwear to the wet so I carried my ugg boots into the shed as the rain set in for my wet feet to slip into then dry as I made the journey in to ride or hang out.

In with my feet slaked little sticks and bits of ick, joining the dark stains of blood from years of bleeding feet being shoved into the boot following an OCPD-fueled pick at either nails or foot skin. It's just unpleasant to think about and is not discussed in polite company.

But I did appreciate the ugg's power to soak the rain from my feet and leaving me snug in the foot department in a sometime chilly shed. Indeed the re-animated uggs have outlasted a heater, yet another appliance died in the service of heating my good self and into the skip it must go. 

My uggs are like me; deeply lived in and hideous in parts. Also foot shaped and I'm sure sheepskin is involved in it somewhere. 

It's funny the footwear that stands out in your life. I've killed dozens of black air-pump sneakers and the only ones that stuck out were the nearly dead ones whose hard plastic frame had rubbed through the protective cloth and would leave the backs of my feet bloody in spite of my trying to gaffer-tape sponge over the hard plastic—the plastic just rubbed right through.

There's clearly a theme here with me, footwear and bleeding feet. Again, not for polite company.

(Returns to the dining room where guests have assembled for the ball. Everyone is masked except some people will clearly fucking stand out body-shape wise no matter the mask that covers the head. Worst; anonymous stranger at a masked party, ever).

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