These are my boots. Not that I wear them per se, merely that I own them, or used to, right up until this moment. You see, there is a story behind these boots, and if I take the boots out of the way I can read the story. I think it’s a pretty stupid idea to put a story behind a pair of boots anyway, stories should be written down, not stored in a box under my bed behind some pink boots.
That’s why I’m writing it here. The story, that is.
These boots were thrown at me in college. This part of the story is inexplicable. I never knew why they were thrown at me, only that whoever had thrown them had bad aim and possibly bad taste (until they decided to throw them away, I guess). Maybe they weren’t the owners of the boots, maybe they’d nicked them. This information is inconsequential. The boots were thrown at me, and I decided to keep them.
I remember being a bit of an idiot at school. I remember being a bit of an idiot at college. I’m still a bit of an idiot now, but probably not the kind of idiot that would keep pink boots and attempt to refit them so that they could be worn by my friend Nathan. I can’t remember exactly what we did with them, other than the obvious cutting of the toe, but for some reason the event was so great and amusing to me I decided to squirrel the memory away until the day I uncovered them once more.
Nathan, if you’re reading this – at some point you will because I will direct you to it – perhaps you will remember the story of the boots in more detail and you can elaborate in a comment. And then the circle will be complete.