Dear Winston Archibald Churchill-

Look MAN. This shoe fetish you have? Lovely. It does prove that you were meant to be mine. And yes, mommy does have some great, dare I say YUMMY shoes… But here’s a thought…

Let them be yummy to your EYES. Because if I have to enter the house and see the carnage that I saw the other day again, well, my cold, black, dead heart just might not be able to take the pain. I don’t care what your father tells you, there is NO SUCH THING as TOO MANY BLACK SHOES. Those were perfect little black peep-toe pumps that made my heart sing. And they were ON SALE.

And you? Made them your dinner. So yes. I stomped and screamed and cried and scared a little bit of pee out of you.

BUT THEY WERE CHARLES DAVID AND THEY WERE ON SALE!!!

Maybe it is my fault. Maybe that shoebox smelled like bacon. Or like the butts you seem so fond of sniffing. I’m pretty sure I can’t send back the chewed carcass of a left shoe and ask that they replace it. I have a feeling that Bluefly would laugh their asses off at me. And yet I can’t bring myself to throw away that sad right shoe that sits so forlornly on my dresser. All alone. No mate. And right before Valentine’s Day, no less. It will never be worn. That was it’s only purpose in life.

WHY MUST YOU BREAK THE HEARTS OF INNOCENT SHOES? Do you not hear the soft, smooth, buttery leather crying out in agony?

Now I’m trying to be a little more diligent about not leaving my shoes in a big pile of beautiful next to my laundry hamper and instead am trying to remember to put them away and I’m even working hard to always keep the giant pile of GO FISH in my closet behind a closed door. I do this because I love, sweetie, I love you.

I just don’t like you very much right now. And don’t be surprised if the next shoe I leave lying around has a big plastic bag full of Icy-Hot hanging out in it. By god… you CAN be taught and the internet swears that shit will work…

Love,
Mom

And P.S… This isn’t working either…