New to FamilyShoes.
I saw the moving van outside the apartment building a few weeks ago. I must admit, I became rather excited. The two chubby, bearded movers and the one skinny kid with the backwards hat were bringing down handcart after handcart of items from the apartment right above mine. Bins of clothes. A very charming lamp shaped like a pig. A metal-framed bed.
And Shoes, the glee that filled my heart was astounding. Off you go! Into the wild shoes yonder. I felt a mixture of pride and respect as I imagined you, standing in the doorway of your now-empty apartment, DogShoes' leash clutched in your hands. You raise your hands in a quick and dignified salute, much like that Growing Pains episode where Mike's best buddy Boner flunks out of college and joins the army.
And then you'd leave.
Unfortunately, I was wrong.
Your roommate was moving out. And instead of you and DogShoes following, you brought in a new roommate. BoyfriendShoes.
You and BoyfriendShoes seem to have a terrific relationship, running through the house at three in the morning wearing what sounds like coffee-can stilts. But it's nice to know you two are getting along. You get along all the time - I know, because your bed is apparently right above my kitchen. I also know that you aren't getting along too perfectly, because I heard you call him a "SOB who couldn't make toast even if his hands were on fire." Shoes, that's not very nice. And what the hell does that mean?
He's a helpful guy, though. I just heard him moving all the furniture in your living room while somehow bouncing on a pogo-stick with DogShoes, or at least that's how it sounded from down here. And when you scream at him, I don't hear him screaming back. I'm guessing he may be deaf. Or in love!
Once almost banished to sleep underneath the mailboxes, BoyfriendShoes now rests comfortably in your apartment. You, DogShoes the 90 lb giraffe, and BoyfriendShoes. One big, happy family. That lives above me. Wearing steel shoes.
I'm buying earplugs.