My Dearest Bar Shoes,
I want to start off by saying you have been a wonderful companion during my drunken escapades. Through all the awkward dance floor makeouts, running in the streets from bar to bar, and standing on surfaces that were not meant to bear the weight of a girl screaming the lyrics to “American Pie,” you really have been more than just a support system for my wobbly legs. You’ve been a good looking set of friends to compliment me while I take the term “hot mess” into the stratosphere. You stood below me while I made many questionable decisions and drank way past what the bartender should have allowed.
You were there for the great times–especially that time when we were dancing with my best girlfriends and got free tequila shots. You were there for the really tough times, like that time I bet those cute guys I could drink five tequila shots in a minute. Although you couldn’t hold my hair back, you sat beside me on the bathroom floor and were there, emotionally. You were like a trendy set of girlfriends who never left my side.
I still remember the first day I wore you out. It feels like I was 19–er, 21–just the other day. I remember I loved you so much in the store and realized we would eventually part ways, so I bought two pairs of you–one for the bars and one for when I attempted to act as ladylike as possible. You were such a trooper through everything, and I’ve only worn the other pair once. They came with me to an event where we didn’t even take pictures. Such a waste.
As my most cherished accessories, I must apologize for all of the torment and suffering you have gone through these last few years. You were the foundation in my rowdy lifestyle, and I treated you like you were just some common bar chick. You were always ready to take on the city, and I beat you up like you meant nothing to me. Remember that time you got covered in margarita the night Mary threw her drink in that weird guy with the mustache’s face when he hit on her? You were there that time I thought I could slide down the railing of those bar steps and land in Steven’s arms–the bruise still hasn’t fully disappeared yet. You have stood beneath me and held me up proud for all the world to see. You were all the support I needed when I could no longer hold myself up. So I want to thank you, Bar Shoes, for being such a wonderful accessory in my closet. I just wish I would have treated you better.