Monster Feet

This is Andy trying to write. Write Andy, write.

I’m wearing monster feet slippers. Godzilla feet, specifically, although I harbor a suspicion that these are not officially licensed products of Gojira. I’m pretty happy about them. Ever since Homer Simpson skipped church to lounge at home in his bathrobe and monster slippers in 1992, I have desired a pair of my own.

I have arrived.

Bizarrely, these Godzilla slippers are labeled as toys are not constructed with the resilience necessary for everyday monstering. We’ll see how long I can wreak havoc upon the denizens of New Tokyo before the wear and tear of casual destruction calls for Godzilla slipper podiatry.

I have a proclivity for items of baroque stupidity. Perhaps that isn’t quite right. I like peculiar things that have a practical purpose. Like monster-themed slippers. I have a Soviet army surplus map case that I use to carry books – because I thought that was interesting and no one else has one. I have some vintage sunglasses that I bought because they remind me of Cary Grant’s in North by Northwest – but they’re not quite right. I’m still looking for Cary Grant’s glasses, but I like them because no one else has them. Desperate individuality, I suppose. I don’t like things that are ubiquitous.

I should be a style consultant. Monster feet, smoking jacket.

Despite being the wise fool, I look like an intelligent person and I do quite well at not saying things to reveal otherwise. As such, people ask me for advice. About everything. I’m like a Magic 8 ball.

The truth is that I know nothing, but move forward with the hesitant confidence of a seasoned blind man tapping his cane into the experimental darkness. However, intuition is not something you can list on your curriculum vitae.

In other words, everything I know in life I learned from watching Seinfeld, I Love Lucy, and The Simpsons. Lucy Ricardo and George Constanza have prepared me.

Back in college, friends would talk to me all the time about their relationships. My longest relationship was a five to ten minute romp on a dormitory futon (true love), but I still listened and nodded, and dolled out wistful opinions like a old man having a smoke on the veranda and reminiscing about the fleeting blooms of love that came and went like morning dew.

Perhaps my monster feet do not enhance the illusion of gravitas.

Nowadays people ask me all the time about social media and internet stuff, as I do have my hand in that professionally. I should probably charge my friends an hourly rate. I should carry miniature invoices that grow when you soak them in a glass of water. Fun! Now sign the dotted line.

What was I talking about? I have monster feet, hear me roar.

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