South City Confessions: Ladies, if your heels hurt your feet, stop wearing them

You’re better than a fancy painful shoe

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And with those ten words, man reconstructed the paths of time, helping ordinary women bring the feeling back to their toes.

Seriously, for fucks sake, women need to stop wearing high-heels if they hurt their feet i the process. Pleasing the freaky toe-licker crowd isn’t worth the hassle of your foot turning into the shape of a prune by the age of 25.

Since I drive for Uber every weekend, I get at least three women who climb into the car complaining about her feet hurting. This is what I’d like to turn around and tell her:

“Look, dumbass. What are you getting out of those tight-fitting things anyway? First, they will make your feet stink like a hockey locker room after four overtimes. That won’t go over well when he pours you a drink in his living room. Come get this, big fella. Straight up junior varsity BO scent! Second, if men aren’t looking at your ass, tits, face, and lips before your feet, it’s time to re-evaluate where that salary is going. Third, it’s just not worth the pain. Wear comfy cute sneakers or heels that actually touch the ground. Stop hurting yourself to project a fucking image that isn’t getting you anywhere except into the tight t-shirt wearing rum and coke sipping Joey’s bed where only bad decisions will be made and you’ll find out he still stashes action figures underneath his bed. It’s not worth it. You’re better than that.”

Stop bitching about it at least. The women who wear these things are decent looking women, even if they flood my car with enough perfume to choke a horse. They don’t need these heels.

Also, pick up a health mag and do some light reading. It’s not good for your heels, legs or body. We’ll call you Blister Biff Bunion next week.

Granted, if it’s for a job and there’s money being made while you sit in an office chair or walk around all day in them, I get it. Going out for a good time shouldn’t include a heel cramp every ten minutes. As our loony President would say, “SCRAP IT! SCRAPPED!”

This way, your friends don’t have to hear about it, muzzling their own outrage until after you’ve exited the Uber, when they then sound off like young school girls about dumb Stacey. That way, I don’t have to hear about it, put my dad cap on, and dish out some advice. We all make out better in the end and your feel don’t smell like they’ve been held hostage by a dirty fucking sock all night.

I know it’s a free country, but sometimes a person has to be saved from their own weaknesses. It’s like telling the obese dude to bypass that sixth donut or telling the guy walking with his shoe laces untied because a rich rapper did it for five seconds during a commercial to tie it up. Slowly, but surely, we are saving people from themselves.

We all need to do our part.

That’s it. This isn’t a bullet round or a here’s what I know seminar. This the new format of South City confessions. One rant about one thing with a lot of fucks thrown in to make it all sound better in your head.

Next time, I may tackle people who can’t merge on the road or guys who need to trim their neck hair. We shall see. For now, I’m done.

Thanks for reading and take care yourself out there.

Author: D. Buffa

A regular guy who feels a journalistic hunger to tell the news. I blog because its wired into my brain to write what I think in print. I offer an opinion. A solo tour here. Take regular stories and offer my spin on them. Sports, film, television, music, fatherhood, culture, food, and so on. Commentary on everything. A St. Louis native and Little Rock resident who wants to write just to keep the hands fresh and ready.

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