Beat Babe: At The Edge With The Wedge

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 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.

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