All was quiet on the Western front, the showdown was on: just me, Stellou Cowgirl, and a pair of goldy gold shoes. The kind of scene where they taunt me through the display window, and already my fingers are twitching, making grasping motions in the direction of the prize. Anyway, I guess I won, because said gold shoes are still sitting on a pedestal in the store, and alls I came home with was what I went out to get, which was a stick of butter.

(Although, really, had I gone in and tried on the shoes, and had they fit, and had I walked out with said shoes in hand—or on feet, as it were—then also would I have won, because then, hello, I would’ve had some gold shoes.)

(Yes, I know, I already have a pair of gold shoes. But these ones were different. Different.)