when i was thirteen i remember whenever i went over to a friend's house who had a sort of get-together with a whole ton of other kids about once a month i'd sit on the rug in their basement with twenty other teenagers looking at socks.
there are ten kids in my family and two ****** parents and we had a whole bathtub full of socks and if you could find two that actually fit you were golden never mind matching or nice and white... and sitting looking at all the other kids' socks i felt like **** they had the nicest whitest socks you ever saw and mine were grey worn dilapidated specimens that i'd dug out from the very bottom. and somehow i decided that this was a failure on my mother's part that she didn't keep our floors clean enough or she didn't wash my socks right and so i spent my thirteenth year feeling like **** over socks
and today i was folding some socks (do you fold socks? i dunno how it works. whatever) and i was looking at them colorful silly but grungy still and the white ones still grey and i thought well i don't have a mother anymore and my socks still aren't white and nice i guess that's one less ****** thing in my life i don't have to blame her for anymore another nice thing is that i don't give a **** about socks