My Feet Cause a Great Deal of Strife

So, the other day, in attempts to look cute, I bought some shoes. As someone who was too awkward and weird busy to go out during my first two years of college, I thought it was perfectly normal to only have a pair of sneakers that smelled like a wet dog (that gets all the guys, amirite?), winter boots that have absolutely no purpose in actual winter, and a pair of ratty flip-flops that I'd had since high school.

Since then, I've managed to go out like a normal(ish) person, and have found a multitude of cute, skinny girls wearing cute, skinny heels. Thus the desire to look "adorable" was born--and since I'm not about to stop eating obscene amounts of Ben & Jerry's, I decided to invest in a pair of heels. Normal, right? Something any college-aged female would do, and presumably succeed at, right?

Wrong. Oh how very, very wrong.

I'm typing this with my left leg hanging over the edge of my bed in order to avoid getting foot blood on my comforter.

It all started when I found a pair of wedges that looked (relatively) comfortable, and my roommate was all "ohmygosh! Those could be your class shoes!" This was a perfectly innocent suggestion, as my roommate is someone who can successfully wear adorable things without looking like she had a run-in with an axe murderer.

So, I bought these shoes, wore them to class with a pair of floral-print pants to top off the look, and 4 hours later, this is what happened:

My roommate had to lend me her gym shoes because my wedges ended up scraping against my feet so much, a sea of blood came gushing out. As it turns out, it continued to gush out all over my roommate's sneakers. Because, apparently, all I do is win.

The face of evil.

This would seem like a relatively insignificant problem, had I not encountered a gazillion other problems with my feet. Basically, it all started when I was eight years old and had to get warts frozen off my feet because the universe didn't hate me enough as is.

To make matters worse, in high school, it didn't even take nice shoes to make my feet bleed. All I had to do was wear something, anything at all that weren't flip-flops and my feet would come at me with a vengeance. As my friend Keri noted in 11th grade, I'd walk around school with blood in my aggressively un-cute sneakers:

Ten-odd years later, my roommate had to write an entire blog post about how problematic living with me was because, as previously stated, my shoes smelled like wet dog.

And now my left pinky toe looks like it's been flayed simply because I was trying to be like the cool kids...not only do they all seem to get it, but they seem to pull off walking on tip-toes like they've been doing it for ages.

Maybe I'd figure it out if I went out more. For now, I'll just sit in my room and bemoan my flayed feet.