Fuck It: Who Wants to Buy Pics of My Feet?

Alright, fuck it. 

I lost my summer job last week, so I’ve been feeling a little depressed and directionless. But you know what? The only direction I need is down, baby—down my legs to the beautiful size 12.5 man-paws that are gonna make me the richest unemployed senior in West Philadelphia.

People have been clamoring for pictures of my feet for decades. Ever since I was a crying sack of lard when I popped out of my mom in 1998, my feet have been my best quality, hands down. 10 digits perfectly distributed along two shapely human hooves, each blessed with the kind of toenail that ancient wars were fought over. You really thought the Trojan War was fought over a woman? Idiot.

And now, I’m happy to announce, my depression, lack of funds, and general listlessness have finally come to outweigh my wavering sense of self-respect and the little dignity I have left. So you know what? Fuck it.

Who here wants to buy pics of my feet?