November
21, 2002 - nothing, jerks, and crazy-ass shoes.
Not much news today... For some reason, it feels
like there's nothing to talk about on Thursdays. I've been thinking lately
about how blind people can be... blinded by emotions, blinded by delusions,
blinded by logic. And a lot of times, people think they understand someone
or something, and they really don't. Myself included, of course. Eh, this
topic is leading nowhere so I'm just gonna stop. It's been an alright day,
but I gotta go to work now, and then I have to do my english essay.
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Image of the Day
Once again, this image needs no comment. |
Rejected Shoe Paper of the Day - Written February 11, 2002
(assigned by Miss Amato -- the topic: write a story from a shoe's perspective.)
It was a cold December morning. My wearer
at the time was a man in his early thirties. He lacked logic, and if you
ask me, he was trying to make it up for it by seeming that he had big feet.
His foot was a size nine, but I was a size ten-and-a-half. His name was
Roger. Oh, by the way, my name is Milton, but you can call me Mil. Anyways,
back to my story. Roger was on his way to work at the old tennis ball factory.
He was driving his 1984 Jeep Wagoneer, and rather speedily at that. All
of a sudden, I was pressed firmly onto the brake. The tires squealed. I
didn't know what's going on, for I couldn't see out the windshield. But
I heard footsteps. I knew by their sound that they were made by red high
heels. When you're a shoe, you know these things. Anywho, the footsteps
were obviously those of a lady. Roger rolled down his window.
"Excuse me ma'am!" he exclaimed. "Wait
that while I call the police and report you a thief!"
"What??" she said confusedly. Her footsteps
stopped.
"Well…" said Roger, as suave as he was,
"you stole my heart the minute I set eyes on you."
The woman made a "humph" sort of noise.
The footsteps began again. I was moved from the brake to the gas, and we
continued on our trek to the tennis ball factory. It wasn't long before
Roger pressed me onto the brake again and put the car in park. The scent
of tennis balls lingered in the air. As we walked toward the good ol' factory,
it began to rain. All of a sudden, Roger took a slight detour, and as always,
he took me with him. We were moving fast, and although a bit painful for
me, I still enjoyed it. Soon, my sole moved from the cold hard pavement
to the soft wet grass. Roger picked some flowers.
"I'm gonna give these to my boss! It will
really impress her. You're moving on up, Roger!" he said to himself. We
walked back toward the building. The soft wet grass became cold hard pavement
again. Roger opened the factory door, and we journeyed up the stairs toward
the boss's office.
-Knock, knock, knock-
"Come in!" said Miss Jenkins.
"Hey boss!" said Roger. "How are you today?
I brought you some flowers!"
"Boss? Flowers?" questioned Miss Jenkins.
"Yeah! Here you go, boss!" exclaimed Roger
excitedly, as he handed her the beautiful bright flowers.
"Roger… those aren't flowers. They're engine
parts. And you know very well that Mr. Calburn is your boss. I'm his secretary!"
"Oh, Miss Jenkins! You're such a kidder."
Roger and I went on our merry way.
And Miss Jenkins really was quite the kidder.
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