It’s like peeling off a scab, like sweeping under the bed, like washing that man right out of your hair and throwing his old shirt that you’ve been sleeping with into the dumpster, like taking his picture out of its frame, like throwing up and sweating out the grain alcohol you drank last night (you’re really old enough to know better), like telling someone no when they want you to say yes, like brushing your cat with one of those combs that gets down to his undercoat, like squeezing a blackhead, like scraping out the stuff from under your fingernails, like going into the woods and screaming as loud as you can, like taking a cold shower (good lord what I wouldn’t do for a cold shower right now), like quitting smoking, like running until your lungs explode, like doing it hard so it hurts, like coughing up that lump that’s been in your lungs too too long, like pulling over and peeing on the side of the road, like shaking this old sorry town off your boots, like losing the swimsuit and swimming like a slippery fish, like throwing things– anything– into a fire, like falling out of love (you can feel it dripping off of you like syrup tapped from a weeping willow, falling away from you like a sunburn peeling, like getting a tooth pulled, your hands cut off, your mouth punched and bloodied, your stomach turned, your brain electric, your guts gone cold, your eyes are crumpled newspapers with war on the front pages, your chest opened up Kali Ma, it’s like a window in your heart, everybody sees you blown apart, everybody sees the wind blow), like jumping off a swing as it reaches the highest point of its arc, like skipping stones, like blasting a rocket into space, like lancing a blister, like an F-22 Raptor bursting through the atmosphere, like emptying a bag of popcorn off a balcony, like screaming yourself awake from the nightmares.
That’s right. We’re having a sale.
The images you are about to see below are a sliver of what we’re putting on sale. Just a taste to get you hooked. Just the tip. Just the flicker of the devil’s shadow behind a tombstone out of the corner of your eye in a West Virginia graveyard in the cold pre-dawn of November, but less scary. Just the merest glimmer of murder in the eyes of the man in the black hat when he opens the door for you, but less sinister. Some day you’ll feel the chill of that tombstone and walk through that dark door, but not today. Today we’re just going to look pretty on the cheap.
You NEED these shoes. You NEED these shoes. You need them for the grocery store and laundromat. You need to wear them to fucking bed.