Just look at my fucking feet. Here they are in Sonoma County. They are propped up on a wicker stool with a glass of shiraz sitting on a nearby patio table. The lush vineyard is rolled out like a carpet, and my feet are like a king and fucking queen looking out over their kingdom.
Here they are at a Waikiki beach, splayed in a relaxed v-shape. They are dusted with sand, suggesting a frolicsome day free of care. Observe the tan lines — proof that I’ve been enjoying a lot of time outside. My beautifully painted toenails are adorned with delicate palm fronds. Try not to think about your own toenails, which are likely as yellow and misshapen as an old man’s teeth.
My feet aren’t afraid of adventure, either. Here they are in dusty Chacos. They are enjoying the view from the top of Longs Peak, in awe of the Rockies, which point up to the sky like fat stalagmites topped with delicious frosting. My feet make you wish that you were here instead of stress eating that doughnut in your car.
Here are my feet at the end of a reclining lounger in Santorini, the chlorine enhanced pool in the background sparkling like a big and expensive gemstone that you could never afford. Check out the toe ring I bought at the hotel gift shop, too. Isn’t it cute? Beside my dewy feet is a mojito, which I’m sure tastes way better than that shitty cup of coffee you got from the break room.
There is nothing like my disembodied feet to prove to you that I am indeed living life to its fullest. Here are my feet on a Hudson Bay schooner, a frosty microbrew beside them. My legs are crossed at the ankle, perfectly displaying my Chuck Taylors, which are scuffed just enough to make me look like a real proletariat. The skyline of Manhattan glitters in the distance like a giant craft project designed by a three-year old. My feet are the emperors of this little universe, a universe that you only see on the tiny screen of your cell phone. Try to shake that thought away the next time you’re shopping for orthotics.