Feet are great. You can dance & traipse & trounce with them, prance & plod & pounce with them. Kick and hop and shuffle, leap and bound and scuffle. Whack ‘em into teeny little points with lofty heels, or let them spread contentedly in some fluffy Bigfoot slippers. Feet are even musical: they can stomp and tap and some folk are even blessed with toes that twinkle. Not I. I’ve never really liked my feet. All the grooming that’s required to prune the nail & preen the flesh to make them buffed and beautiful; this was always too much for me. So mine have mostly hidden under socks for the past 26 years. The poor mites have only seen the light of day through a jelly-shoe one childhood summer on the beach at Bognor Regis and briefly from betwixt the strap of some Birkenstocks I found on campus whilst drunk. Until now that is. I’ve decided to say thanks for all their years of good service by burning them alive. So I do hope you’ll sponsor them as they walk gingerly across hot coals for equality between the sexes. Because if you don’t love my feet, who will?
Lots of love,
(think of the feet)
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