Yesterday, my stylist took me to go try on my Oscar shoes, which were made for me by Stuart Weitzman. They were sparkly. Kind of retro. With hefty brooches to be affixed atop each narrow toebox. I was pleased, but it wasn't, like, an event.
Today, I read
this. NEWS TO ME, kids. I must have somehow missed the part where my shoes cost a MILLION FUCKING DOLLARS and my "choice" of footwear would be publicized nationwide. I honestly thought they were just sparkly shoes. Mr. Weitzman did mention that the diamonds were real when I tried them on, but I'm not Nancy Rockman, Expert Gemologist. I didn't, you know, bust out my miniature spyglass and assess the potential worth of my kicks.
I swear to God, I have the most bizarre life. Truly.
This looks really attention-whorey, and for once, I didn't do it on purpose.
I'm flattered that they picked me (surprise!) to wear the Pimp Shooz, but WTF, right?
ETA: I'm actually really pissed about this, now that I think about it. They're using me to publicize their stupid shoes and NOBODY ASKED ME. I would never consent to a lame publicity stunt at a time when I already want to hide. I'm sorry if I sound like a party-pooper, but Jeebus.
 | Currently listening:
Disintegration
By The Cure
Release date: 01 May, 1989 |
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