Today I hate black socks. Racist. Who you callin’ a racist? You. Well, me. And you, where you = me. For all youse, where you equals me, I hate you. No I don’t. I hate black socks. Confused? Me too. Maybe I should actually edit my thoughts before spewing them out onto the page…. nah…
Disclaimer: this post may be filled with ramblings that have no connection to your life. Actually, you could replace the words ‘this post’ with ‘this blog’ or ‘my life’ and the statement would still be true.
So why do I hate black socks? Is it some national sports team ala the All Blacks, the Black Ferns, the Black Sticks etc… (or for american peeps Red Sox)? Or is it crazy-young-person-slang for something hateful? No. Actually the Black Socks does refer to the New Zealand softball team but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about socks that are black. If you clicked on those last two links I feel sorry for how boring your life must be. I mean, I would be curious enough to hover over them, but once I saw they were just wikipedia links to “socks” and “black” I wouldn’t go there.
So “Why?” I hear you ask. Why are you hating on hosiery items that do not reflect any light in the visible spectrum? The thing is, it’s often not so much the socks themselves, but all the things they represent, and all of the challenges that come with that. I’m wearing black socks today – I don’t particularly hate this pair of socks, but I do hate some of my pairs of black socks.
This is getting confuzzled. Ok, here are two things I hate. Like really really hate. With a burning passion. Actually, more like things I avoid (with a burning passion). 1) pairing up socks. 2) wearing suits to work. 3) elastic bands that cut in. So if you put all 3 of these two things together you get – black office socks. Which for some reason always have stupidly tight elastic at the top that cuts into your ankle (as an aside, I apparently have huge ankles. Not fat, like cankles. Just ginourmous ankle bones. I can’t comfortably wear roller blades (Oh no!), so I would never survive as a gay man in Los Angeles), and they are impossible to find a match to in the washing basket.
So I’m gradually throwing away my black socks. Why gradually? Why not throw them all out in one go? Well, two reasons. Firstly, I’ve already washed them so that seems like a bit of a waste. And secondly, taking off my socks at the end of a long, hard day (well… a ‘day’. I won’t pretend I work hard. How long have I been writing this blog already? And it’s almost my lunch break…) and throwing them straight in the bin makes me feel like a bit of a rock star. Oh yeah. I can afford to throw my socks out each day. That’s right. I’m fucking gangsta.
And fuck the man for telling me what I can and can’t wear to work! Are you my mummy that you feel the need to dress me? Fuck off bitch, just cos your fashion sense runs to the uptight-power-mad-bitch-who-feels-like-she-has-to-push-people-around-so-they’ll-respect-her-authority (UPMBWFLSHTPPASTRHA – acronym of the week). I’ll wear dress pants, but a jeans style cut. I’ll wear shirts, but funky shirts. I’ll wear leather shoes, but the most sneakery leather shoes I can find. And I’m not going to wear black socks anymore! Oh yeah. I’m starting a revolution.
Colourful socks. How sad is that? I’ve just realised I’m becoming ‘that guy’ in the office.