My new running shoes make me feel like I could run like the WIND! or at least like sort of a slow warm breeze on your face as you sit outside drinking, regretting very much that you did not go running this morning. Non-sequeter, but shoe related, remember these?
And how in fifth grade you were supposed to have them because everyone had them, but your parents wouldn’t buy them for you because they were 50 bucks, but by the time your begging wore them down and you, nearly puking with joy, ventured to the Soccer store on Stratford road and bought your first pair, and, in the safety of your bedroom, put them on, moving the tongue over to the side like everyone did, and proudly wore them to school, you were dismayed to find that everyone, instead, was now wearing these:
and your Sambas were completely irrellevant, rendering you inferior; a poser, invisible, which of course prompted you to violently lash out at the gazelle-wearing masses and their pick-up soccer games with poetry in your dream journal that later gave way to stories, that later gave way to plays, that eventually led to some sort of career in writing for televsion, which bought you these: