'Open the Pod Bay Doors, Hal'
My socks gave up the ghost just after lunch. They had been valiantly resisting a the descent from wearable to nasty all morning. Their little sock immune systems shut down at about 1:30 and the sock bodies slumped, giving way to the partially decomposed, paste-like state that all socks pushed a day past their breaking point eventually assume.
By two p.m. it hit me: I have not been out from under a roof for over 24 hours. I have not felt sun hit my skin or the wind on my face for an entire earth's cycle. If the atmosphere outside my office window had completely converted to methane, I would have had no idea until someone emailed me and told me to start holding my breath.
I go from a feral little apartment down to a parking garage, into a car, which eventually parks in another parking garage that connects to my office. My office has 2 gyms and 2 cafeterias and a convenience store in it. At night i reverse the process, moving through chilly concrete airlocks to the safety of my coworkers' SUV, and then back to my slightly more feral apartment.
I am convinced that the forces of mold, decomposition, and kipple enjoy a heightened sense of reproductive power inside my apartment. The kipple seems strong and happy each night, and my sock's immune systems are becoming more pathetic with each passing day.