Vicki the Biker?

*sigh* Here's the thing. I'm mostly (in my own head, anyway) a very normal, boring person. White bread, middle America, straight down the line. I go to work. I goof off at work, playing on my blog. I go home, eat something approximating dinner and then fall into the soul-sucking depths of my recliner. Sometimes, I wake up there the next day. You'll have that. Then I do it all again. The excitement of my life is stupifying. Really.

But there's another side too. That's the side I try to keep under wraps. The same one that got one tattoo, and is wondering where to put the next one. My evil twin, except the Sybil-living-in-my-brain version. She thinks that an occasional bar fight is the perfect stress relief, and that we (um, I) don't have nearly enough things pierced. She's the one that worked up the nerve to take off for California for several months, and the reason (most probably) that I had the gumption to leave everything I knew to move here for the job.

Lately, I'm afraid she's getting out more than she used to. And, others are starting to suspect. What led to this confession is a pair of shoes. I'm quite the stereotype girl when it comes to shoes. Oh, I loves me some shoes. And shoe shopping? All over it. Like white on rice, baby. My friends and family have laughed at me for years, 'cause no one knows how tall I am at work because I'm always in shoes with at least 3 inch heels. Always. Even my snow boots have heels.

Someone sent me a link to a store, where they bought a dress. I arrowed straight to the shoe section, where I found these. OMG. They are wonderful!! I must have them. I must.


Yes, that's my confession for the day, folks. I don't just love shoes, I love hooker shoes. Silver and clear, 6" platforms THAT LIGHT UP. I've found nirvana.