My da got me my very first pair of Doc Martens when I was in high school. Before them I was a sneaker-clad miscreant of fashion. My Docs made me feel really bad-ass. They brought a newfound confidence and a slight increase in height. I felt good in them. After that all encompassing emotion of goodness, I decided that bitch couture is my niche. The blacker the better.

Over the years my wardrobe has become a sea of lush black fabric. Satanist. Goth. I’ve been called it all. I proudly brandished my black flag and shunned the unbelieving masses when they tried to put me in a box. Enter my very first pair of platform boots, pictured here in all their splendor. I was inches taller. The leather wrapped around my legs seductively. The buckles tightened around them and I was ready to kick heads in. I felt… powerful. They are quite the statement, these boots. I’ve mended them countless times and wear their wounds with pride. I could be wearing an enormous macaroni box with these babies gracing my feet and my ego would know no limits.

Yes, yes. It is merely a character augmentation. A superficial one but I do so enjoy expressing my demeanor and creativity through my dress code. I put effort into my appearance because I like the way I look. They say clothes maketh the man but darling, boots uplift the woman.

An easy going blog piece tonight. I’m all jacked up on pork chops and chai tea. It’s clocking 11pm in South Africa and I have nothing but time and pork fat on my hands. As you were.


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