Literary lore says that Hemingway once won a bet by writing a story that contained only six words:
For sale, baby shoes.
This very, very short story is often viewed from an ominous, tragic perspective. However, any mother of a young child can think of many, many reasons why those shoes were never worn:
The shoes in question were lime green Crocs. A late shower gift from “quirky” (stoner) Aunt Sandy.
The soles smelled like a cross between Walmart and burning tires.
The little fucker kicked you right square in the teeth when you tried to put them on him. So guess what Tyler, I agree! No shoes! No shoes for you! Hope you enjoy tetanus shots, buddy.
Your doula Cherri said you shouldn’t bind a baby’s appendages because feeling grass on their feet is a wonderful sensory experience that aids gross motor development, and, yes, Dan, I know we live in Brooklyn and there’s a broken Heinekin bottle RIGHT THERE, I have eyes, okay???
You just want to make a quick buck on Craigslist. I mean people sell all kinds of shit on there. Did see that post selling like four old Pampers and a spatula? WTF?
The shoes were dropped into the toilet. Because what isn’t dropped into the toilet these days.
You were just about to put the baby’s shoes on him but then sat down to rest for one goddamn minute and then started thumbing through "The Sun Also Rises" to see if your brain still even worked anymore but then you ended up getting so annoyed by the novel’s blatant blowhard sexism you launched both the shoes and book out the window in a rage.