Images via Goodhood
I’m thirty years old now, so I feel obligated to fuck with cool thirtysomething kicks like these Clarks Originals Weavers (available in Spice Orange and Ocean Blue, pictured above; also available in Black, White, and Maple Suede, not pictured). I’m finna wear a pair of these to the next daytime wedding I'm invited to. Rock a complementary, but not overly matchy-matchy, pocket square. Stand in front of a mirror, struggling with a bow tie until the hotel shuttle turns up. Drink too much free booze during the cocktail hour and do the Drake loco tea kettle dance during “Hotline Bling”. Is this why no one trusts me to give a toast at their wedding? Am I that much of a schmuck? Is this the wrong platform for assuaging my myriad insecurities? Will new shoes make the questions stop? Fuck me, I am just tumbling through this life like a bunch of wet towels in a broken dryer. I’m going to be damp forever. And once I get that mildew smell on me, it’ll never totally come off. I need to soak my entire existence in OxyClean. Presoaking is clutch as fuck. Word to my laundry nerds. Man, I feel like the great Nic Cage in almost every single movie he’s been in: just going through the motions, devoid of passion or interest, until my inevitable and hopefully memorable meltdown. I’m a vampire. I have an overwhelming desire to know how it got burned. I’m heavily into whatever the plot of Pay the Ghost was. The man won an Oscar. Plus, he turns into Ghost Rider with serious fucking aplomb. Wait, what’s that buzzing sound? It almost sounds like...wha? What is that? What is that? What is it? OH NO, NOT THE BEES! NOT THE BEES! AAAAAAAHHHHHH! THEY’RE IN MY EYES! MY EYES! AAAAAAAHHHHHH! AAAAAAAHHHHHH! AAARRRRGGGHHHH -RB
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