Mine. All mine. Thank you, Internet. Specifically, thanks to Anyabeth, who abused her work priviledges in a reckless and glorious manner in order to track these wiley boots down for me.
Anyabeth: Shh. There's a pair of size 7 Sundance Uggs at this exact latitude and longitude. Go now, but make sure no one follows you. Ask for Charlie and tell him that the green chicken has entered the nunnery and he'll know what to do. Hurry! There's precious little time! This email will self-destruct in seven seconds.
Amybeth: I love you. Let's make out!
Anyabeth knows all sorts of insider shopping seekrits and ways to spend all your money. Which I did, as these boots were the very last purchase our credit card was able to handle, and it self-destructed in a puff of maxxed-out smoke soon afterwards.
Specifically, at the restaurant I made Jason take me to for the express purpose of showing off my butt-ugly boots.
"Hi, I'm a total snowbunny poseur. You can't see it because I can't hold the camera still for three solid seconds but my sweater is a hoodie that's trimmed in rabbit fur and even has two little furry pom-poms. Alert PETA, for I deserve to be smacked very hard."
Anyway. I heart my boots. They are orgasm-caliber comfy and obnoxiously trendy. I would now like the Internet to find me the matching messenger bag in Chestnut, but for free, as I have no money left at all.
"So does this mean I can take off the snowbunny sweater now? Also, please send me food, Mr. Internet, because my mom thinks fashionable footwear is more important than eating. Or shoes for Daddy, who gets nothing but faded old socks. I'm so going to take a crap in those boots."