I knew it from the moment you walked in.
I’m not sure what prompted me to raise my head from my book at that moment, sitting in that lecture hall; I’ve never really believed in fate, but I’d make an exception for this. Looking back, I’m not sure what first drew my attention—the sashay of your hips, the irresistible poise with which you held yourself, or the violently pink bandana you wore.
To be honest, it doesn’t even matter, since after seeing you all I wanted was to soak in your ambiance like a ShamWow!TM soaks up to twelve times its weight in liquid.
Little did I know that there was far more to you than I could’ve known from just that first impression. I lowered my gaze from head to toe and there—in a mix of shame and divine reverie, my eyes locked onto your footwear. There I saw something like philosophy, something like meaning. On this nippy November morning, you had the audacity, you had the nerve to put on Socks with Crocs, to bike to class, and walk through those doors.
To say that I was in shock was a criminally-punishable understatement. I damn near cried right there in my seat out of sheer respect.
This was more than a power move—it redefined the very notion. Seeing that misaligned my chakras, put Mercury in retrograde, and caused me to astrally project several feed outside my body. Because only someone with an unparalleled sense of the self, who walks the jagged path between life as we know it and uncontrollable insanity, could be capable of such an outfit. It’s only that I looked away that I held onto my mind long enough to write you this letter.
If you’re out there reading this, know that I understand. Your actions did not go unnoticed, and actually changed the course of my life. The general public may mock you, they might sneer at your footwear combination, but they just don’t understand. I do, though. Godspeed, Socks and Crocs girl.
