Yeah, I ain't talking about alcohol. I'm a shoe addict. I might've mentioned it before.
These are my brand-spanking new, paid-too-much-money-for-them-but-I-don't-care Baby Phat shoes. They are hootchie. They match the dress I was wearing. My friend Steve and I went out on the town last night to celebrate my WaPo story, the purchase of these shoes and to take our minds off of some stuff in our lives that's sucked. There's little that you can't forget about when you have enough to drink and wear a pair of shoes like this that require that you pay conscious attention to remaining upright.
By the way, that is a cat embossed on the heel.
So, we went out to what is a very nice bar and dance club in D.C. which, as I'm about to crap all over it, I won't name, and when I went to the unisex bathroom, below was what awaited me, my dress and my beloved absurdist shoes.
That's a toilet with no motherfucking seat. It's a prison toilet. It's not like you can fit a Shenis in a purse, dudes. Oh, and there was no sign or anything on the door, either.