Socks.

So I have a vendetta against socks. I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but it's true. Ever since I was a little girl, I've hated socks. The dirty color they turn when I wear them around all day... I mean, eww. It's like this gray color of filth and despair hanging out on the bottom of my feet. Just no. No thank you. Oh and that awful restrictive, confining feeling? It's like my feet are suffocating, which I know is impossible, but what is possible is me shriveling into a curled up ball of sadness and self-hate.

It's not like I never ever wear socks. Socks are a necessity, and I realize that in my own good sense. I will, of course, wear socks with sneakers. I mean, otherwise, that's just gross and sweaty and smelly, and oh my god disgusting. So yes, I will wear socks, when it is needed, or just plain despicable without them. But I WILL NOT wear them unless it really an absolute requirement to life... and hygiene.

Anyway, as you can see, I hate socks. However, my feet are also in a state of constant cold. Not just cold, it's like they have no ability to maintain any form of body heat. It's like Ryden says in Post Grad, "My feet are always cold. I have the feet of an eighty year old man." I also have the inability to fall asleep when my feet are -3 degrees. So most nights, I lie in bed, desperately trying to warm up my poor feet- sticking them between blankets, folding one of my feet between my knees, which really only makes my whole leg feel like an icicle dangling from the rest of my body... nothing really works. Mostly, I lie there and think about how a pair of socks would probably be the key. However the family I have come from also has ingrained in me the ability of being completely stubborn, hence why I would rather lay awake at night freezing my poor feet off, because I openly refuse to bend to that level... whatever level my delusional, masochistic brain thinks that is.

ugh. No. I hate socks.