I love my black Doc Martens.

Some people call them "shitkickers", but I would be inclined to disagree. Their smooth black leather, long laces and thick soles are durable enough for any mosh pit, but my 14-hole boots with "Air Wair" and "Bouncing Soles" are much too pretty to go mucking around in anything, and that most certainly includes shit.

I coveted my wonderful boots for many months before I finally became one with their black leather and rubber goodness (I really am not into BDSM, I'm telling you). For too long, they sat there on the shelf in my local shiny and expensive Journey's store, tempting me, calling me, begging me to lace them up around my calves and become one with my inner badassness.

Unfortunately, when I had finally saved up the funds and nerves to brave the mall and buy the boots, the only size left at Journey's was probably half a size too big. Regardless, they jumped off the shelf and onto my feet, and I emerged from the place as feet-happy as I've ever been. True, If they didn't lace halfway up my calves, I'd probably have left one behind on a sidewalk and ended up instead saying "I love my black Doc Marten." But, miraculously, I became united with my "british punk" footwear, and they became as much a part of my life as masturbation and tortilla chips.

Ages ago I'd never have admitted to my boot fetish. However, perhaps even due to the influence of my black boots, I have recently become an enlightened woman of the '00s, and I can now tell you how much I love the feeling of the cool, stiff leather encasing my lower legs, and how often I gaze endlessly at the frayed, ponderous laces.

I often like to think that my boots have a voice of their own. Perhaps it echoes as I descend stairs, a satisfying "THUNK" as their rubber soles hit the wooden steps rhythmically. Maybe I hear it in the drumbeat of walking from my Aikido dojo to my lover's filthy apartment, to idle burned cups of coffee at late night diners.

Most of the time, my docs just make me feel proud to be alive. I wear them in the freezing cool of winter, to keep my legs warm, and just as often in the sweltering hot summer, just because they look spiffy and add an extra, somewhat scary and foreboding dimension to my ambience of utter sloppiness. The best place to wear them is at school, where they propel me from one class to the next and give me points in my overall "alternativey" score. I'm hardcorer than you, and I have the boots to prove it!

You people might be right. Maybe they ARE shitkickers.

Those boots were damn expensive, so my love for them is certainly warranted, under the circumstances. At $120, extreme fashion doesn't come cheap. No, I don't eternally polish them at night. No, I don't carry a rag in my pocket to wipe them clean of errant dust. Really. (Don't look at me like that.)

My boots are made for dancing, fucking and ass-kicking. The occasional scuff can only serve to make them seem more battle-worn.

When you own boots like mine, the best thing in the world is to casually walk by a mirror somewhere in the general public and catch a glimpse of your be-booted self. I watch myself stalking by in the glass of the big windows at the student commons, and share a sly, knowing look with my reflection. Damn, that's one sexy bitch, I comment to myself. And that right there is some fucking fine footwear.