So the other day I was about to put on my boots when I realized that I had no socks. None. Not even dirty ones. It seems that during these past few months of warm weather and lazy flip-flop wearing, all my socks went rogue on me. Those sly motherfuckers-- they snuck out of my closet leaving me with no option other than to change my whole outfit. Or risk a relapse of athlete's foot.
If you ever come into contact with said backstabbing footwear, please pass along a message from me:
See if I care, bitchez. I'm wearing my boots anyway.
I refuse to swallow my pride. Athlete's foot it is.
Having no socks makes me think back to when I was living in New York with my parents. We had a sock-sharing system that generally went like this: I would always run out of socks because I was lazy about doing laundry. So I'd start wearing my mother's socks, but since we both were wearing her socks they'd run out quickly. And then both my mother and I would start wearing my dad's socks. And although the three of us were now all wearing socks from the same pile, they would never run out (My dad has unlimited socks-- the only possible explanation is that they reproduce asexually whenever their population feels threatened. Or perhaps my father has a secret compulsion to wash socks whenever my mother and I aren't looking). But eventually my mother would force me to do laundry and the cycle would start over again.
On a kind-of-but-not-really related note, I am obsessed with my new John Fluevog shoes even though they look like curtains and hurt like a mutha.
