'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.

posted by Jeff Simmermon @ 11:04 PM