They say if walls could talk, they’d spill secrets. But if my Louboutins could talk? They’d have an NDA thicker than a rock star’s ego.
These red-bottomed beauties have been everywhere—tour buses that smelled of ambition and stale energy drinks, backstage green rooms where I’ve negotiated last-minute setlist changes, and step-and-repeats where I’ve flashed a flawless smile while praying I wouldn’t trip. They’ve strutted across runways, clicked their way through record label offices, and even made an appearance in a courtroom (though, let’s be real—I wore sneakers on the way there and swapped them out like a seasoned pro in the lobby).
They’ve survived sticky club floors, spilled champagne, and the occasional existential crisis in a venue bathroom. They’ve stood their ground when an artist decided to have a “creative difference” in the middle of a show. They’ve been propped up on recording studio consoles at 2 AM, listening to the fifteenth version of a song that was “almost there.”
And they’ve hurt. Oh, have they hurt. I’ve considered selling my soul for a foot massage more times than I can count. But style demands sacrifice, and these Louboutins? They are the silent warriors of my most unforgettable moments.
They’ve carried me through the chaos and the glamour, through the deals and the dreams, and at the end of the day, when they finally come off, they leave a red imprint on my feet—a badge of honor, really.
Would I trade them for something more sensible? Absolutely not. Because when you walk into a room in Louboutins, you’re not just making an entrance—you’re making a statement.
And mine has always been: I’m here to handle business. And maybe, just maybe, to dance a little while I do it.
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