(1, 2, 3, 4, 1)

Sitting here with my legs up, staring down at a pair of beat up Chuck Taylors. They're all bent up to fit my own feet, frayed in the laces and blown right through the heels. My socks don't match at all. These shoes are written all over; a short phrase to remember every time my life was changed since they were purchased. They used to be black. They used to be stiff. But these shoes are mine and they've seen too much to look anything but loved.

I wonder if Jac Vanek cries.

I love these shoes. They are absolutely a big girl security blanket, so if you see me wearing them, chances are I needed a little extra confidence to get up and shine that day. I nap with these shoes on. I push my way to the front in them. I choreograph in them. These shoes have walked through amazing times.

I am a hypocrite to hate Twitter.

Today these shoes saw the acoustic folds of another Guitar Center and heard a hundred more familiar notes. If you recognize something about that last phrase, then you should've realized I was the one updating Jay's twitter today. It's true that I requested Dakota, but he played BigCityDreams on his own. Don't I always request Dakota? My shoes like the boys with ridiculous hair.

I'm stepping down.

My shoes make me walk toward the scene haired kids all the time. It's really not up to me at all. I've raised them to have a mind of their own and, after exploring side roads in their spare time, they've sold their soles to this scene whether it feels right all the time or not. Isn't that so typical of shoes? I tried to argue with my Dad this week that Love was free. In fact though, it costs you the most. My shoes are cheap symbols of something I find myself walking away from with empty pockets.





...Ricky.
"This is the End" The Maine