gmeister101 (gmeister101) wrote in oddfiction,

You don't have to read, but I have to write


Thirty dollars. Thirty fucking dollars. They expect me, mother of two, divorced, with a stinkin job at Nina's Cosmetics to spend thirty dollars on a pair of beat up lookin' Reeboks. Oh yeah, look at the rich thirty year old hag with money comin' out of every pore on her sweaty, fat, old body. I hate capitalism. I hate government. I hate anything that tells me that I can't FORCE that worthless excuse for a man to pay back every cent of child support he owes for the past five years. Most of all, I hate when second hand stores charge thirty bucks for a pair of shoes that are the only ones in my size. I have huge feet. I love my feet. The lord has never seen feet this beautiful. These feet feed my family and keep that roof over our heads. They see my kids through school and will see them through college. These feet kept walking when that worthless man threatened to hurt me and my children. These feet carried us all, Jamie and Nick in my arms, and never stopped til we got to the police station.
That's what makes a woman; not her breasts or her hips or her womb. Her feet carries her and her children through life, whether she walks on grass or goat heads. Her feet keep her moving even if there's no man to support her. Feet are important in life, and they ain't worth no beat up shoes. No thirty dollar beat up shoes somebody else threw away.
I'm itchin for some potato stew with onions and meat. I'll swing by that corner store on Fifth then get dinner ready. Thirty dollars. Lord their heads are second hand.

...needed a place to put stuff like this. Critique all you want- I just want a place to write where people can read it if they want. Cursing Christian... just the right character.
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