25 October 2001
Do You Want To Know A Secret
I live for socks. But not cute-ass ones like the long
pink babies I'm sporting right now. Nor the black over-the-knees that
are so much better for your girl parts than those nasty old thick black
opaques. (Boys! You managed to prize a girl outta some thick black tights?
Well done, but... STOP! Are you sure you know what you're doing? Prepare
to meet her friend Candida! Did you want a threesome? Cuz you gonna get
one!) No. I'm talking..... can .... hardly.... spit.... it.... out......Novelty
I heart novelty socks. I heart coloured ankle socks with slogans and cartoons
on. No, not in a frickin' ironic way. You gotta be like 15 y/o and stick-thin
to pull off the amusing socks and stilletoes look, and believe me, I ain't.
I love them for real. Cartoon socks. Socks with spiderwebs on for Halloween.
'Born To Rock' socks. Union Jack socks. Witchy-face socks. 'Girl Power'
socks from Woolworths. 'Girls Behaving Badly' socks from Woolworths. Indeed,
any kind of socks with the word 'Girl' on them in any context whatsoever.
Especially from Woolworths.
Why? I normally despise such boringly essentialist gender-based sexualising
descriptions. Plus, the whole 'I
love being a girl' thing is so, like, over. And yet. My toes embrace
it. My insteps caress it. My ankles demand it. What's going on?
My feet are a fashion blindspot, a style Bermuda
Triangle, a cultural wasteland, permanently stuck in some kind of 1997
V-flicking skunk-striped girlpowered reverie.
My heels are my Achilles heels.
That's why I wear boots.
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