I don’t need these boots. But I’d have them. If someone gave them to me, I’d have them definitely. I don’t need them. I don’t need anything. But as the festivus bares down on us, undercarriage heavy with baubles, rich meats and rum soaked sultanas, it’s not really about need is it? It’s just about stuff. Having stuff. Then having more stuff. Having more stuff than everyone else’s stuff. And now I’m looking at these boots that I don’t need, thinking about having them. And then I think of the orphans. And the starving and diseased of the world. And I pause. And I just think, fuck me, check the cordovan uppers on these things?