C'mon Shoes

I was battling with my shoes this morning, and I was told that I’d be writing about it. Coherent, I don’t feel like being coherent this morning; my entire world is freezing up with the 15° of naked cold that took life over the night. It coerced my driveway into becoming an ice hockey rink, and the adjacent streets followed suit. The drive from sub-urban frozen unclean block to sub-urban unclean frozen block is a test in character, strength, determination, and sheer 4X4 power; luckily I’ve got all of those things securely lodged in my back pocket. I am not writing about my shoes being unkind to me; however, I am writing once again. All it took was a comment from a higher brainpower in regards to my undeniable struggle with my Skechers semi-matrosexual foot wear to wake me up from my snoozing state. What has changed since the last time, hmmmm, not much, I just have a fresh new crop of tiny bumps decorating my forehead. It’s like revisiting puberty, minus the constant horniness, kind of. The dermatologist thinks she has got something that can help me, and I think I just got screwed by nature, or mother. None of my siblings struggle with this epidermis plague, but I, I, hmmmm, I. Yeah, I’ve been given a second hand skin, and I don’t like it. People are looking at me funny, something with some widget somewhere, I have to go, for now.