Ass-thetic

Can you hear that? It's me wading in my own shallowness. But c'mon...that's what I call a boot beeeeeeaaaaaattch! Check it out! God is a mad deadly DJ and a shoemaker in Italy! These are them. Here they are, the Rocco P boot that I blogged to excess about last week. Or was it this week? Who knows were the time goes when you're selfish and self-centered? Tee hee hee.

Note: I highly object to the whole "beeeeeeeaaaaaatch" thing b/c it's about as hip as tucking your jeans into your 'Solid Gold' squishy leg boots...What? No way! That's back?No one is feathering their hair, are they? Shut Up! Fuck me gently with a chainsaw! Gag me with a spoon! That's so gay!

I'm sorry. I thought I heard you say, "Show me different angles, Shannon! For the love of Christ, show me 360 degrees of mutha fine shoes!" I ain't got soul, but I got sole. (I kill me!) Every woman should have a pair of Come Fuck Me shoes, whether they're boots, stiletto heels, patent leather stripper shoes, strappy open-toed Oscar night shoes, it doesn't matter. Little black dress? Check. Moisturizer? Check. At least 1 pair of New Relationship panties? Check. Nearly flawless haircut? Check. Tight ass and buoyant tits? Can't win 'em all. Come fuck me shoes? Check plus, beeeeeeeeaaaaatch! My black Rocco Ps do double duty. (Say that 3x fast, "do double duty, do double duty..." I kill me!) They're Come Fuck Me boots AND Fuck You, Fuck Off, Fuck It, Fuck Everybody boots.

While I'm being shallow, which is, um, always, but indulge me with a quick beauty story, will ya? My cousin, Mary, who was in town this past weekend, worships at a church called MAC. We spent a chunck of the Sabbath paying homage to MAC. There I was, a bull in a china shop, a dyke in Fredrick's of Hollywood, scoping out all that aging cream, all that consealer, liner, bronzer, blush, lip puffer, shadow brush, brow brush, blush brush (Say that 3x fast.) and sparkle. I don't know whether I like matte or glittery lipstick. Don't make me care! Leave me alone! Then I stepped in a huge pile of dung. One clever, murmured crack about how inept I was at makeup, and my cousin seized the opportunity to play Tell Her She's Pretty. Four seconds later I'm in a chair with a stranger telling me to "Close." They traded secrets back and forth, like it was a tupperware party. They said something about foundation, which surprised me b/c apparently there's some layering process involved. Who knew? It is like construction. There's a fucking primer! I am dry-wall! About 10 minutes into this process, after I surrendered to the touching of my face, Mary's gift for color selection and application prompted me to ask, "How do you know so much about this stuff?"

She said, "Remember all those books were were supposed to read in High School?"

"Yeah," I responded.

"Well, when you were doing that, I was doing this."