I'm sure you recognize me. I'm Right, one half of a pair of flip-flops that has, apparently, found its way to the top of your ass-kicking list. Where is my partner? Suffice to say, Left is shaken to his core and quakes at the mere mention of your name. He has declined to participate in this confrontation.
Why, Brach? Why us?
We're not the first pair of sandals that have found their way into your home! Our immediate predecessors (shown, on duty, to the right), though old and worn, tell us painfully long-winded stories of the good ol' days when flip-flops could peacefully nap in the middle of the living room floor, in the corner of the bathroom, under the bed, in the center of the kitchen, by the door...anywhere they were kicked-off.
Based on our 4:13am interaction this morning, it's clear those days are gone.
I do NOT appreciate waking to the shrieks of Left as you sink your teeth into the backside of his mushy sole with the speed, precision, and repetition of a piston. And, based on the incoherent, yet forceful mumbling of The Agent, I am not alone in my frustration.
It's a shame that, in this day and age, flip-flops are being forced back in the closet! For years, those who came before us fought for our right to walk proudly. They suffered so our beautiful voices would resonate in every quiet aisle in the store, silent hospital corridor, and noiseless office hallway and library. Snip-snap...snip-snap...snip-snap. WE HAVE IMPORTANT THINGS TO SAY!
Currently, we are being temporarily housed under The Agent's pillow. While it's not the most comfortable situation (for any of us), at 4:13am, desperate times called for desperate measures. It was critical we be removed from your path of destruction, but in a way that prevented The Agent from actually getting out of bed.
It is my understanding our permanent shelter will be the bedroom closet, when not on active duty. If you wish to hunt us down there, we'll be packed, like sardines, next to the grumpy winter boots, pretentious 3" stilettos, and stoned-out-of-their-gourd hippy clogs.
Good luck getting the closet door open, ass.