The Pink Eraser Manifesto.

I remember a time when I was the go-to item in your pencil case. A time when loose-leaf paper and 5-Star Trapper Keeper’s ruled your world. A time when ice cream money guaranteed the success of a day, and milk money was even more pertinent. A time when the answer was usually something along the lines of “a person, place, or thing”.

Now, you’ve grown up, found Bic, learned to type, but above all else made me so proud. Sincerely. I’m Soccer Mom happy with your progress.

I’m just concerned that you moved on from me, lumping me in with the frivolous supplies you don’t need, like cheetah print pencils and protractors.

Listen, I’m no Walkman, no Pet Rock, or Pog. I have feelings, well, rubber eraser remnants. Their trail tells my story, excuse me, our story. Maybe I am too reserved to make things permanent like Sharpie or bleed through the page like a Uni-ball, but I don’t think your words are any less valid.

I just want to give you the option of a quick fix:
A moment to write your word and then check the synonyms.
A quick update to the eyebrow curvature of your doodle.
Maybe even a little ‘before the Boss sees this’ action.

My point in all this? I’m here to help and I’m not going anywhere. You can still use me, you can still problem-solve with me, and you can still toss me in the air while trying to pass time in-between assignments.

I’m putting my rubber down on this one, anything this good is worth fighting for, and we’ve been together for too long.

Let’s make love to 8 x 10’s again.

words to live by.

"Be orderly in your normal life so you can be violent and original in your work."

-Gustave Flaubert

Ladies, let's be ladies.

Dear Commuting Women in Skirts and Sneakers –

Up until today I have always hated you.

Hate is a strong word, yes, but I only reserve it for the utmost of dire situations, like fashion bashing moments and Celine Dion (dirty bitch). Yes, up until today I found you all fashion whores. Rudely, lighting bags of shit to be stomped out by models on Milan runways.

And then, well, genius socked me quite good. I thought a remedy for you, for all of us.

I understand why putting on running sneakers would appear a great idea during the rush of AM pre-coffee moments.

Here’s the rub, you look like a jackass.

Of course, I can appreciate the feeble attempt to preserve your ankles from city coble stone trouble. I get it, for sure, you and I are one. And yet, however in understanding we might be with your plight, I still want to kick you in the face with my adorable ballet slipper work shoes. Who am I kidding? I’m wearing wingtips right now, but you get the idea. Fools, all of you.

Whether it’s just having left the gym, speeding up your walk from train to office, saving valuable tote bag space, the lot; I really don’t care. Tim Gunn would lose his fashionista lunch if he ever saw you like that. Gross.

Ladies, let’s be ladies.

Moral of the story? Stop wearing those bat shit crazy high heels and get some comfortable shits.

Your fellow subway riders will thank you.

Sincerely,
BoatShoes Brooks

PS - Great legs though. Wink.