tirade of a tired sock
first they pierce us with sharp needles. then they leave us bored for months on end, in shops where “do you have these in 39?” represents the upper limit of intelligent conversation. then they force us into dark caverns and leave us at the mercy of feet, creatures whose malice and sadistic glee surpasses even that of the common weasel. mucous toes. blabbermouth bacteria who tell stories about their incestuous lovelife all day long. pungent stench. prickly heat. first feet make us dirty, then WE are thrown away in disgust. separated from our beloved ones. and then they wonder that we go missing. go figure.
