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Dear Diary, a page from a shoe-addict

Dear Diary

I have a personal story that I must share with you, It’s about shoes. I love heels. Heels in all kinds of different colours and shapes and sizes – well you know, not all sizes, my size, although sometimes when I can’t get a really nice pair in my exact size I buy a smaller size… but I digress. Heels are my life, they make me the woman I am; confident, sexy and proud. At least that’s how it used to be, but this new self-discovery is just too much to bear.

The other day I bought a shiny new pair of designer heels. The moment I first put on the heels. I knew they were for me, I looked amazing. They were SO comfortable. That’s when it happened; A quiet voice from within whispered, “Eventually, you will feel pain. You know you will.” I tried not to think of it, paid for the shoes, left the store and dashed off to daddy’s Bentley. But something didn’t feel quite right.

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That evening I was going to a shindig at daddy’s club and knew I would wear my heavenly new shoes, yet the voice inside my head insisted: “You’re making a mistake, don’t do it”. Once at home, I called for my maid Marissa and had her try on the shoes, and asked her how they felt. She said “Meeeez, the sho is beautiful”, but she looked a little too comfortable and I quickly asked her to take them off, I didn’t want her to think that I was giving them to her or something. I put them on – if they looked that good on Marissa – imagine how great I looked, breathtaking that’s how. 

So I had my stylist fit my dress and my make-up and off I went to daddy’s club. For the first half hour everything was wonderful. The dress, the make-up, THE SHOES, but then something started happening 

– OMG my dear – It was preposterous. My new shoes starting gnawing at my perfectly manicured feet like gluttonous piranhas. The waiter came by to offer me another glass of Dom Pérignon and I am ashamed to say I snapped at him unnecessarily, I usually pride myself in being nice to the help, but I actually yelled at him: “Get that damn tray out of my face, you blithering idiot”. I am now certain that the shoes made me do it – not in a magical way – I am not crazy. But the pain they caused made me into a monster. I was at my wits end. 

There are some very prominent people at daddy’s club and this particular evening I was waiting for a certain someone – being anonymous I cannot reveal his name, but let’s just say he is the heir to a lot of money, like trillions and billions – that kind of money. Daddy had told me to make his acquaintance that evening – and I knew just the way to do it; with a dance. I have been told I have some very sensuous moves, thank you eight years of ballet academy. But with these painful feet how would I ever convince 

this charming heir of billions that I was wife material?  

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I decided that I had to try despite the pain and when I got the chance invited him to dance with me.  I looked ridiculous, the pain was overwhelming, I couldn’t move, I started sweating – my makeup running. I didn’t impress anyone, least of all the heir. I made my excuses and dashed off to the bathroom where I sat on the toilet for half an hour, shoes off of course. I looked at them; it was as if they were mocking me, as if they were saying: “Ha ha we told you”. When I finally emerged from the bathroom, the heir had his arm around that god awful woman whose daddy owns a chain of shoe stores (just to make matters worse) – nouveau riche – you know the kind.

I left feeling defeated. Outside daddy’s Bentley and driver were waiting for me. We went home and I haven’t left the house since – what’s the point if I can’t wear heels. Flats are for quitters and daddy always says I am a winner.

Is this the end for me and my love affair for expensive heels? Why did they hurt me? What 

have I done? Has this ever happened to anyone else? What am I going to do?

XXOO

I. Lyalot.

(This is not actually a real person, but  a satire blogpost, no animals or people was hurt writing this:))