Dear Mr. Giver Of Crocs

I am now hurt.  I told you yesterday, repeatedly, that I wanted boots.  I think maybe you misheard me.  I want them for me.  Not for Mommy’s Martini, but for me.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for her that you gave her boots, but I very specifically requested them. Imagine my surprise when I opened my feed reader this morning only to find my boots on another blog.

And so Mr. Giver of Crocs, I hope you understand my supreme disappointment.  I can only assume that you don’t love me.  Nor do you care about the opinion of a woman who does wear 3-4 inch heels on a daily basis.  Fine.  I see how you are.  I have feelings you know.  And email. (jennifer AT injennifershead DOT com)

They’re probably really the hideous clogs that I would never let near my size 7.5 feet anyway.  It is all through some creative camera angles and photo editing trickery that they look like smoking hot boots anyway.  Somehow you’ve hidden the inherent abhorent nature of the Croslite creation.  I’m sure the very molecules of this substance somehow alter one’s DNA in such a way as to make elastic waist fleece seem like a socially acceptable garmet.  There is a chemical that creates a bad trip to a place where comfort is the only concern when clothing oneself.  You’ll see, one day they will have to do a spinal tap to find the lingering substance.  It will happen when some starlet shows up at the Emmys in a muʻumuʻu, only to find her parents outfitted her in these as a child.

If I see these on someone else’s blog tomorrow, I’ll know you’re doing this just to torment me.

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