ur job is SWAT team member, or special forces. Otherwise, the boots pictured here are pretty much only appropriate for gay bars on the wrong side of town that make you stop in your tracks until your eyes can adjust to the dim light. Places too dark to see what's happening in the corners. Places where you want vibram outsoles and thick buffalo-hide between what's crawling around on the floor, and also, to protect you from germs. Places your mom, no matter how cool she is with you being gay, definitely wouldn't want you frequenting. Places that I would know absolutely nothing about...For the record, I don't own the boots pictured here, I swiped it from a website picture of a particular pair of boots that I have been lusting after for gosh, probably ten years. It's the price that's prohibitive, I simply can't justify the cost, because I am not, in fact, a SWAT team member and 200 smackers is a lot of money for boots that won't get much use (alas...)
Which brings me tolast night.
Last night I was attending a life drawing open studio I try to make regularly, but have been missing for a lot of reasons, some lamer than others. At the end of the session, I was messing with my paper out in the lobby, cursing myself for having brought the wrong stuff, thinking I had the good watercolor paper but instead had grabbed the colored drawing paper, and in my self-chastising interlude I missed the model setting up his pose for the last half-hour session. Upon re-entering the studio, my dick takes one look at the model and announces "NICE boots!" I really do wish it'd check with my brain for social appropriateness before speaking, although I suppose the alternative, raising its hand for permission, might have been even more embarrassing.
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