Fuck flip-flops. Fuck the very fiber of their being.

First of all, who the hell decided that flip flops are for everyone? Fallacies! All they do is make the general population’s already weathered and nauseating feet filthier and more visible to us non-suspecting civilians. They’re not “faaaaancy,” they’re not “cuuuuute ;-),” they don’t make your feet look “smaaaaall.” Ew.

And this helter-skelter weather isn’t facilitating my plight either. Thanks to the freezing 9:30 a.m. classes and the fiery lectures of noon, lazy pedestrians “don’t feel like being hot,” so they slip their disgusting little hobbit feet into a skanky pair of flips in an attempt to “release 10 percent of their body heat through their feet.” As if it’s that hard to buy a sensible pair of breathable day shoes made of something breezy and opaque, like linen or steel.

They’re also completely dysfunctional; instead of keeping me cool, I have to use extra toe strength to keep them from slipping off my feet, forcing me to expend at least 100 more calories daily. That’s a lot of sweat, baby — I don’t have this kind of time to be sweating everywhere; I’ve got a life.

A patient person like myself will obviously not tell a flip-flopper how putrid their choice of footwear is and that I can feel the Moosewood macaroni rising in my esophageal tract. No! But I will hide your flip-flops and/or spill hot Rainforest Nut coffee on your nasty toes. Hey, it’s not my fault. It’s hot outside, my hands are sweaty and my gloves are a cotton poly-blend — they’re slippery, there’s nothing I can do about it! They don’t make flip flops for hands you know.

Why doesn’t anyone appreciate the delicate appearance of an Ugg boot on an 80-degree day anymore? New world, Green Peace, hippie flip-flop assholes.

To further my dilemma, my apparently not-straight-haired-enough, super-attentive roommate left her hair straightener on and lying on the floor, waiting. As I was casually walking over to her bed to fluff her pillow for her and fix her covers, her straightener placed itself right under my foot and scalded me (yeah, scalded … second degree burns, yeah, ouch). Luckily, I’m blistered ONLY on the areas a flip-flop doesn’t touch — great! So now, all I can wear to my Portuguese Theatre class are flip-flops. Thanks a lot, roomie, thanks. Now I can party with you and all of your ogre-footed friends. Fuck.