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An Experiment with Feet Mittens

At one point in your lives it might have occurred to you personally. You open the sock drawer and slip right into a surprising state of torment as the turmoil which are cotton feet mittens get the better of you. You hopelessly scuttle through the wreck, striving to get two identical socks. Most likely, you fail. Maybe you settle on various colours, but you are aware the stitching does not match up. Declare it.

I threw them all outside and took a stand against these white monstrosities annually past. Every sock I possessed went to the waste. This started the Great Sock Experiment.

Success– replenish it with twenty identical pairs from your local discount mart and wipe out the current sock residents was guaranteed by the simplicity of the assumption. The mental pain and rage that once consumed me when I opened the drawer vanished. Now when I opened it, my spirit was filled by an expression of great pride which made me feel whole. I realized what no other living man could realize. I defeated the sock drawer.

Well. For half a year anyway.

One wonderful summer day the solidity of the system began to flounder. My fiance, Jessie, stayed over at my flat for a weekend and took me clothes shopping. A fresh set of fine tan short pants discovered themselves in my shopping cart– I wanted socks to go with them. Overconfident from my successes up to now, I stacked in a six pack of tan socks. The drawer became a heterogeneous mishmash of shades.

A month or two afterwards, I counted my socks and found an uneven amount. Panic struck me quiet. I sat down in the bed and shouted. I discovered some of Jessie's socks on the ground. I whined and phoned her at work, but she, like my family members and buddies believed I had been joking. Really, you cannot care that much about socks, she'd inquire. But I did. My life fell into ruins. My sock system crashed.

Somehow, I finally stabilized the sock wreck again. Jessie's rogue socks were removed by me from the premises and all was well again. The sock drawer sung in harmony again. Learned from my errors, I began to win victory after victory over them. They fell quiet, humiliated by my absolute power. Months afterwards, I trusted them enough to have a road trip; I moved in with Jessie.

Right now, she comprehended that I meant company and valued the strategy I set into movement so long in the past. We kept independent sock drawers to stop cross-fitting, a particularly hard job as we simply possessed one chest of drawers with four drawers complete. Our life was great and my feet were warm. Triumph looked insured..

Until three months afterwards. Jessie works full time and that i work at home– I'd become quite alone with only my socks to keep me firmly on track. I embraced an adorable Cockerspaniel named Hansel that I had seen in the local animal shelter. I took him home and renamed him to Unix, since they neutered him. His first weeks were like every other pup's, I assume; he pursued the cats, wagged his tail and ran through our two bedroom flat like it was a five acre field. He looked care free. Yet, this was all just an action to cover up his diabolical scheme: the complete as well as total destruction of my feet warmers.

He adores socks over cat, cake and burgers put together. Like a feral wolf, he splits the socks from their very material in violent fits of head shaking. No quantity of scolding and other sorts of doggy compliance could erase his want for the (allegedly?) socks. Someplace in the rear of his doggy thoughts exists the instinct or wisdom to understand that socks really are a danger to doggies everywhere. Lacking the canine's genes, I cannot start to see the sense behind this survival mechanics.

Today, I opened the sock drawer. Three socks. One white, one tan plus one black. I do not even recall where the black sock came from. Jessie had just done laundry this week, really I must have more. I did not and I do not. The hamper was full of her socks and included none of mine. I possess three socks.

I lost.

The sock experiment failed. And, as I sit at my desk writing this, my naked feet warm, chewing on a sock are being kept by Unix. He Is a more than suitable replacement.

Humour


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