Oh, Google, Cease Thine Relentless Torment! or I Really Fucking Want Those Boots

Due to a series of unfortunate events, Kyle and I found ourselves in New Jersey on the day before Thanksgiving with four hours to kill before our flight. So naturally, we did what everyone does in New Jersey in the winter: we went to the mall.

Luckily for us, the Jersey Garden Mall is fucking enormous, so our time was easily spent. We mostly window-shopped; our only purchase aside from lunch were some sour cherry-cola gummies. (Which were fucking awesome!) But we went into a couple stores, drooled over some wished-for items, and strolled the halls of the mall together, watching people and gazing through windows.

We were nearing the end of our time at the mall when suddenly…

I saw them.

I stopped in my tracks, walked over to the window, and pointed at them. “Those,” I said, my voice practically shaking. “I want those.”

They were the most beautiful, wonderful, fucking kick-ass boots I’ve ever seen in my life.

Aren't they just breathtaking?

They look like the kind of boots that you wear to high tea and then afterwards stomp on some hipster’s face in the parking lot. Wear on date night and then throat-kick some asshole at the bar. Flirt your way to the front row of the show and then crush the foot of the guy who tries to pull you off the barrier. They were made for me. My life has a boot shaped hole in them, and these boots fit it perfectly.

I was able to drag myself away from the window, but they wouldn’t leave my mind. I knew that this was more than just a fashion fling. They are my footwear soul mates. I needed to take the first step towards making these boots a part of my life. I made Kyle circle back with me so that I could try them on…just to see what size I was, right? Putting those beautiful boots on my feet only further imprinted them in my soul. They just felt so…right. Like if I had hobbit feet, they would be floral and lace up to my calves exactly like these boots. I left them there that day, (much to the fury of the sales girl who’d fetched them for me,) but I knew that our separation would only be temporary. Come hell or high water, I would make those boots mine. As soon as we got to Kyle’s parents’ house I stole his laptop and googled the shit out of them, if only to see that they weren’t a figment of my imagination but something that were still attainable.

Today, I am no closer to making those boots mine. The game plan I came up with was simply to lay low and bide my time. I figured that either one of two things would happen: either the universe and I would conspire to make them mine or the passage of time would soften the memory of those lovely boots and I would slowly forget the ache of longing that rang in my chest when I thought of them.

But that was before I realized what a heartless motherfucking fucknugget Google is.

Remember how I said that as quickly as I could I googled those beautiful boots? Well, apparently Google took note of the intensity with which I typed and realized that this particular google was more important than last week’s “temperature of a properly cooked chicken” or “katy perry topless.” (Hey, don’t judge. You know you have equally weird shit in your Google history. Not that Katy Perry’s boobs are weird; they’re quite lovely, in fact.) And it remembered this google.

And now they’re everywhere.

(The boots, not Katy Perry’s boobs.)

Whatever logarithm Google advertising uses to figure out what I want to look at, apparently the answer is always those boots. Everywhere I go on the internet, there’s an ad for those boots. Everywhere. Taunting me. I meander over to Facebook and *BOOM*, there they are. Make my way over to WebMD and *BAM*, there they are again. Slate, Lamebook, MyFitnessPal, eNotes,  BitchinLifestyle, ShitMyKidsRuined, even…

*dramatic pause*

…some of your blogs.

That’s right. Even your very blogs are rubbing those boots in my face. Constantly reminding me of what I can’t have. I try to forget them. I do. I tell myself that they’re just shoes, there will be others, there’s tons of boots in the sea. And just when I think that I’m finally over them, that I’m ready to move on, *KA-BLAMO*, there they are, hanging at the top of another website in all their leather floral glory. They’re like the ex who dumped me for someone else but I keep running into at the grocery store when I’m wearing sweats and my eyes are still red and puffy and I’m trying to pretend that I’m not there buying more brownie mix and $3 wine. It’s all I can do to avert my eyes, get the hell out of there, and hope they didn’t see me. Because the truth is I’m not over those boots. Not at all. In fact, I want them more than ever.

Which is why, like that chick who stalked Robert Pattinson until he took her to dinner, I will not fucking stop until I make them mine. It may take some time and require me to do something embarassing, but those boots will be mine.

And then, god willing, Google will stop tormenting me and let me rest peacefully.