You’d have to be on bath salts not to realize that the Isabel Marant sneaker wedge has spawned a fanatic craze that can only be described as “Kate Spade backpack-like,” or “Furby-like.” Every girl I’ve ever met and even some that I haven’t, seem be stomping around in these things or their cheaper, knock-offier step-sisters which are springing up in stores across the globe as we speak. Like a weed. The world is not a safe place in the era of the wedge sneaker. Even my skin is responding negatively to the hostile environment that they’re creating. You should see my post-blot blotting papers recently. So anyways, like I always do when I’m having feelings, I wrote a poem about it and I feel a lot better. Hopefully you will understand and support my cause.
The Ballad of The Unwanted Wedge
What can I say when speaking isn’t enough to begin with?
Must I scream how I feel?
YOU HAUNT ME.
You haunt me still.
Isabel, ma belle, why did you have to fuck everything up for everyone?
Fuck comfortable.
Fuck easy to wear.
FUCK day-to-night.
Have you not wreaked enough havoc on my world? You’re an ugly child. You’re a pest. I no longer want you. Do you not understand? There was a time and a place. Now, your presence is hurtful. I am crying. Not actually, but symbolically.
Must I have waking nightmares of closets filled with nothing but you? Endless miles of closet space, walls of shelves lined with the same pair of sneaker wedges.
Admit I will, I thought you were chic once but I’ve grown up since then. The world needs to grow up. Let us grow. Let us go.
A trend is not a trend is not a trend and this one will send me over the edge.
You kill me, sneaker wedge.
I am dead.
You win.
Even in death, I hate you.
But actually, I win because when the world ends in December, we will not look back on you fondly. We will be sad about how ugly you were. So yeah, I totally win.