I want to be a sock.

My mind is weird.

Today, as I was laying on my parents’ bed, hopelessly trying to get rid of my boredom, I laid eyes upon a pair of socks, a couple of inches away from my face. Here is said pair of socks:

Like any sane person would do, I took the socks between my hands and started gazing upon it like it was a mystical orb of some sort.

Then I started thinking, look at that sock. It’s so peaceful. Its life must be so calm.

And then, I dug deeper and deeper into this newfound interest in sock psychology, and adressed it in person:

I envy you, sock! You sit there, wrapped up in a ball of woolliness and comfiness and fuzziness, not giving a fuck about anything! Your life’s purpose is to be worn, and your only torment is the washing machine! You have no life to worry about death, no school to worry about grades, no future to worry about the present, no emotions to worry about heartbreak!

I want to be you, sock!

Then, with a mixture of jealousy and disgust, I threw the sock away and made a cup lemonade.

Aha, sock! You, like all your fellow inanimate objects, will never experience the delightful taste of a cool beverage, or anything edible for that matter! Who’s the loser now, eh, sock?

You suck, sock!

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