Damn you, Chanel. Damn you, Karl Lagerfeld, you genius man whose every creation I find myself coveting. (Seriously, can I give the man a shout out? He's in his seventies and his designs are so current and classy and beautiful. Genius, thy name is Karl.)
Well, onto my obsession... the over-the-knee boot. Not to be confused with thigh-high stripper boots, which are not the same thing. I am *not* talking about this:
Which, you know, whatever. Strippers need shoes. Prostitutes do too. So do the goth kids. And it gets cold out there on those winter nights with the skimpy and/or zero clothing and all.
So, yeah, this is the only blog where you'll see Chanel boots in the same post as those crazy boots by Pleaser. When I got the catalog for Americana Manhasset that gets stuffed in with my Vanity Fair, I thought the circus theme was pretty cute which led to me rifling through its pages, scanning the designer goods that I will never be able to afford. Then I saw these Chanel boots and cursed the gods that I wasn't born with the Hilton fortune (though if I was, I probably wouldn't have the excellent taste required to appreciate these boots):
Now, logistically speaking, I cannot wear these boots. Love them I may, drool and violently shake my fist at the sky over the fact that I will never have them, yes, but that is a model, and the boots are probably as tall as I am. Also, the dress? Perfection. I love it so much, and with the boots I could just about go cross-eyed from visual overstimulation.
They are just hot. hot. hot. and were I a 6 ft. tall amazon I would have put the car into hock to own them. So it's a good thing I don't have a car.
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