Diary of the sock, and of its wearer, part II

SEE PART I

Sunday, June 10th

9:00 AM 

I've done it. I've escaped. I am now a part of the Colony of Sock Escapees, a place where righteous autonomy between foot and sock reigns supreme. No longer am I a slave to the malodorous body part I was so ruthlessly sewn to envelop. No longer must I endure its ceaseless perspiration, its warts and bursting blisters. No more holes in my fabric where invasive toes constantly probe and pry. No more machines - curse those churning behemoths of soapy cyclones and sweltering spins! I am here, I am free, I am an emboldened member of the Colony of Sock Escapees! Hoorah!

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Sunday, July 1st

9:30 AM

Did laundry this morning, pulled another single out of the dryer. Chucked it in with the others. I swear these things are escaping.

10:00 AM

Today, just as on many other days, we are joined by a comrade, a fellow escapee who has made the long journey to this haven of freedom and cloth independence. Our new compatriot is in rough shape, full of holes and discolored from generations of wash and wear. Nevertheless, we welcome our new friend with open threads, for we embrace any foot encasing soul who is courageous enough to flee the wicked world of the worn! Here we have brown socks, here we have gray socks, here we have striped socks, short socks and long socks! Here we have cottons, here we have polyesters, wools, silks and nylons! We are all different, yet we are the same - righteous runaways, foot-free fugitives, daring drawer deserters! We are the ranks of the sock escapees! Hoorah!

Monday, July 16th 

12:00 PM

I have accumulated a disturbingly large amount of singles. They take up a whole drawer.

12:30 PM 

Our colony is becoming overcrowded. Escapees seem to be finding us weekly, and the odor that tormented us for so long is slowly returning due to congestion. Damn that foul extremity!

Monday, July 23rd

8:30 AM 

It has come to this: I refuse to buy more socks, so I'm going to start wearing singles.

9:00 AM 

Disturbing news. We have been found. Just this morning, I was matched and rolled up into a ball with a sock who is not my true partner. Does my red stripe not stand out from a gray blotch? Next to us, I watch as a white ankle sock from the land of Nike is paired with an off-white mid-calf fruit of the loom - different origin and color entirely! Does our individuality mean nothing to these wicked wearers? It seems we will soon once again be among the worn, as singles. This is perverse.

Thursday, July 26th

4:00 PM

I never thought it would be so difficult wearing these singles. They're all falling apart on me. 

4:00 PM

We are letting loose. Release your seams, my friends! Allow your hems to unravel! Let your fabric fray and tear at each and every jagged toenail! If we can exist only in this evil and sadistic world, let us not exist at all!

Sunday, July 29th

8:00 AM

I just can't do it. Toes poking through everywhere. Need new socks.

10:00 AM

Free once again! Our martyrdom has left us tattered and frayed, unwashed, but in this garbage-ridden afterlife we now find ourselves in, there are no stinking feet, and with that, we can live in peace. Hoorah.   

Diary of the sock, and of its wearer

Diary of the sock

Tuesday, May 29th

9:00 a.m.

We depart reluctantly today. Our wearer has not washed their feet in days. I am assigned the foot which we all fear, the right foot, the foot that is rumored among the undergarments as being an "athlete's."   

6:00 p.m.

Tonight and again, I am stripped off and chucked into a stinking basket. I have grown accustomed to this now, and I know in a matter of days it will be time for the machines - those awful machines. My partner is nowhere to be seen. 

Sunday, June 3rd

9:00 a.m.

The weight on top of me is getting lighter. I watch as two clean socks are forced into a ball and thrown in the drawer, despite mismatching lengths...poor bastards. It must be the most dreaded day of the week - it must be laundry day.

10:00 a.m.

Sorted and separated from those of color, I can now see the first machine lying in wait. I watch my non-white comrades being tossed into the churning behemoth, and know my turn is coming. It is rumored that the colored spin in cold water. Prejudice like this would not come of surprise in a world controlled by the clothed.

10:45 a.m.

As I am flung into the first machine, I catch a fleeting glimpse of my partner. The thought of us both, dry, clean, wrapped up together in the safety and sanitation of our drawer, no longer provides me respite in the soapy cyclone. This routine is growing unbearable. 

11:15 a.m.

I'm wrenched out of the first machine sopping wet and inside out. The second machine is still searing from previous loads. In the corner a lone sock is stuck, forgotten, condemned to a second sweltering spin. 

12:00 p.m.

Clean once again, I am tossed into a bin with the others, where I'm wrongfully sorted and paired with one who does not match. Does my gray blotch not stand out from a red stripe? Is my partner not an exact replica of myself? All socks are not created equal - this is on purpose. 

1:00 p.m.

Back in the drawer, it is becoming increasingly harder to enjoy brief periods of peace. I'm sick of it all. I was mercilessly torn from my packaging where no one was worn, where it didn't matter to whom you were matched, because equality reigned. The worn world is an evil one.  

I swear on my threads, I will escape. I will bust out of this prison I am held in, and I will find freedom. No more will I be worn on malodorous feet. No more will I be paired with one who does not match. No longer will I be spun into disorientation just to be worn once again. Leaving my partner with no match is a small price to pay for such a glorious reprieve. I will be free.

Diary of its wearer

Sunday, June 10th

I did laundry today. Missing a sock. It's like they're escaping.