Diary of the Sock

Tuesday, May 29th
9:00 a.m.

We depart reluctantly today. Our wearer has not washed his feet in days. I am assigned the foot which we all fear, the right foot, the foot that is rumored among the undergarments to be an “athlete's.”

6:00 p.m.

Tonight and again, I am stripped off and chucked into a stinking basket. I have grown accustomed to this now, and I know in a matter of days it will be time for the machines—those awful machines. My partner is nowhere to be seen.

Sunday, June 3rd

9:00 a.m.

The weight on top of me is getting lighter. I watch as two clean socks are forced into a ball and thrown into the drawer, despite mismatching lengths…poor bastards. It must be the most dreaded day of the week: laundry day.

10:00 a.m.

Sorted and separated from those of color, I can now see the first machine lying in wait. I watch my non-white comrades being tossed into the churning behemoth, and I know my turn is coming. It is rumored that the colored spin in cold water. Prejudice like this would not come of surprise in a world controlled by the clothed.

10:45 a.m.

As I am flung into the first machine, I catch a fleeting glimpse of my partner. The thought of us both dry, clean, and wrapped up together in the safety and sanitation of our drawer no longer provides me respite in the soapy cyclone. This routine is growing unbearable.

11:15 a.m.

I am wrenched out of the first machine sopping wet and inside out. The second machine is still searing from previous loads. In the corner a lone sock is stuck, forgotten, condemned to a second sweltering spin.

12:00 p.m.

Clean once again, I am tossed into a bin with the others, where I'm wrongfully sorted and paired with one who does not match. Does my gray blotch not stand out from a red stripe? Is my partner not an exact replica of myself? All socks are not created equal—this is on purpose.

1:00 p.m.

Back in the drawer, it is becoming increasingly harder to enjoy brief periods of peace. I'm sick of it all. I was mercilessly torn from my packaging where no one was worn, where it didn't matter to whom you were matched, because equality reigned. The worn world is an evil one. I swear on my threads, I will escape. I will bust out of this prison I am held in, and I will find freedom. No more will I be worn on malodorous feet. No more will I be paired with one who does not match. No longer will I be spun into disorientation just to be worn once again. Leaving my partner with no match is a small price to pay for such a glorious reprieve. I will be free!

Diary of the Wearer

Sunday, June 10th

7:00 p.m.
Did laundry today. Missing a sock. It's like they're escaping.