Dear Cobblestones in Richmond:
You think you’re so quaint don’t you? From your cemented spot in the ground, put in place since before automobiles, you look up as I precariously pick my way across your uneven and broken, ankle bone shredding surface. And I know you laugh.
But, Cobblestones, I want you to know that I am not impressed with you. Yes, you’ve seen many cool people come and go. And from your vantage point you can probably see up my skirt, you scamp, but you know what you jerk of a stone? You also been barfed on, pissed on, and get stomped on daily.
I’m on to you, Cobblestones. You’ve been out to get me since day one and I knew that my days were numbered. Yesterday, my number came up and this is how you made me look:
I do not appreciate being mocked, Cobblestones! See how cute I was in my all black outfit? See how jaggedy and crooked you were in your haphazard style? As I was carefully picking my path you – out of nowhere – pulled the tap off my high heel and sent me flying forward and to the left so that I twisted my ankle like some model on a catwalk. My arms flailed out in a pathetic attempt to steady myself; I may have even swore as the contents of my purse came tumbling out onto your disgusting surface. Gross, Cobblestones. Gross.
Four people witnessed the event and laughed. FOUR, Cobblestones! Hell hath no fury like the wrath of me, Cobblestones!
So you may be surprised to know that I was not dismayed. One shoe tapless, I held my head high and stomped on each and every one of you as I made my way to my car. You can have that shoe tap, Cobblestones, as a reminder that I won’t forget. And as I walk obnoxiously loudly (until I get this tap fixed), you can be sure that with each step echoing and every hateful glare that I receive I will hate you more and more. And every time I tread your surface, I will stomp you and hope that you crack like the compressed dirt you are.