Wednesday, January 18, 2006

'Open the Pod Bay Doors, Hal'

2001: Corporate Headquarters

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.


At 11:45 AM, Anonymous Alysse said...

How long, exactly, do you wear socks? I mean, how can you push "a day past their breaking point" when one day is as long as you're supposed to wear them? How can you put them on again? They are so limp and damp-feeling. Treat yourself to a fresh pair each day. Trust me on this. A horrible thought just occured to me-- PLEASE don't tell me you sleep in them.


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