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CONFESSION: This is what happens when my tomboy is down for the count and I’ve been watching 4 hours of UFC, drinking whiskey sours and looking at motorcycle porn, missing parties. You have to admit, it’s kind of awesome. Because in a perfect world, of course, we’d all be born with internal titanium helmets that wouldn’t interfere with shiny, shiny hair and titanium lungs that could smoke 84,000 Blacks without batting a single lacquered eyelash. Let’s not be rational. Let’s be ridiculous. It’s Saturday night, after all.

Also, I’d never sip champagne out of a stiletto-shaped flute, but it meshed so well with the spirit of things.

When I showed M these shoes, she noted that they’d be especially effective in a roundhouse kick (I was indecisively hemming and hawing between these and and a spiky-toed version seen at this blog). I noted that I’d be tossed into jail for assault within four hours of putting them on, but it would oh-so-worth-it. Why bother wearing them if you weren’t planning to maim someone?

It’s like disrobing and then deciding against sex.
Or mixing a cocktail and neglecting to drink it.
Or baking Irish Car Bomb cupcakes and not eating any.

Foolish!

In other words, these shoes should require a license of some sort.