An Inner Monologue/Buying Socks (Whatever I'm Back)

A great man once asked me, "What happened to your blog, assh0le?" He was right. He never said that, but he was right anyway.

I am no expert on what people in the majority call "the real world." I am new to what is basically Chutes and Ladders "for keeps," as we used to say when the bloodsport of Pogs was the event of the day. BUT I will say that I have picked up on something in a rather expedient manner, and that is the disproportionate amount of time one spends alone. This is not about loneliness, although the two can be connected. This is about forced alone time, and what one man must do to get some socks.

Since falling face first onto the concrete slab that is life, I have spent a lot of time by myself, and if you pardon me for a moment to be lachrymose, it has quite simply blown. Why? Well, it's not like you can do much alone.

That's not entirely true, is it?

Is this pathetic?

In all honest, it's quite difficult to think of things you can't do alone, but at the same time, when you start listing things like vacuuming and eating, you get sad, so you stop. You compose yourself, and you start again. Mike Myers, while in a fat suit, once said...

This all stems from a Sunday afternoon where I set out to buy some socks. I have found that my Sundays are sort of an amorphous series of hours, a diamond in the rough I have not quite found yet from that big scary tiger's mouth that Jafar walked through that one time. Remember? So anyway, these Sundays are jumbles of both weekend regret and weekday guilt...basically what I did do and what I should've done in the first place, you know? Enter the socks.

So I go into a department store whose name is irrelevant in search of some dark socks.

From hereon out, the asterisk (*) will indicate when I am seeing it fit to conduct an inner monologue. It will also be used for when Roger Maris hits 61 home runs to break Babe Ruth's single-season record for home runs. Curiously enough, it was ignored when Mark McGwire hit 70 home runs in 1998 and even not really brought into conversation when Barry Bonds took 73 deep in 2001, yet Marc Ecko decided to bring Ford "SexyBack" Frick into the limelight again with Bonds' 756th home run ball escapades. The asterisk also looks like a booby tassel.

*socks socks socks socks socks socks socks gotta find socks dark socks muh muh muh MYYYY SHARONA where are these damn socks?*

*hmmm this inner monologue thing might be a sweet blog idea. damn but i haven't written in that thing in weeks. it is sunday i've got plenty of time i guess. oh cool socks, dark ones even*

Shopping is a lot like going for the two-spot in a public restroom, there is a sense that an audience is present and you must either perform or wait until they exit the venue. I'm speaking completely from personal experience and have no empirical evidence whatsoever to validate such a slipshod statement, but I waste my semiprecious time writing this and you don't have to read it. ONWARD.

There was a dude there, perusing the aisles for some undergarments. In my periphery in caught a glance of his prospective items and thankfully he had decided to avoid such novelty accessories as Tabasco or Corona boxers. I wouldn't have stopped him from buying them though, we all have to learn from our mistakes.

*wow good thing that dude didn't buy those Family Guy boxers that could've been a doomsday scenario with a lady. if i had those on, i would kill myself first. good thing, good thing. can't really get songs from My
Aim Is True out of my head. sneaky feelings, sneaky feelings ooooh can't let those feelings shoowwww...*

*okay so we've got some socks here, got em right here, like prying them off the feet of the Wicked Witch of the East had she not been hit by a house but merely left them in a drawer, clean, unworn, and also been a dude, so that is legit*

*shit*

*gotta decide because people are starting to circle around me like hungry buzzards for carrion*

*these. no, these. i could get both. or i could get these. or these. maybe those instead. two pairs? three pairs? two pairs. TWO TICKETS TO PARADISE, WON'T YOU PACK YOUR BAGS WITH ME TONIGHT*

*two sets. seems like a decent deal. watch that dude over there. he's looking at socks. don't look over here at me. i'm in the socks zone. the quadrant. the area. keep to yourself. i'm in this place. i came for the socks. it is sunday and this is what i'm doing. socks and i right here, in this place*

*okay i guess i am good to go*

*dum da da dum dum dum da da da dum dum dum dummmm shoes shoes shoes walking past the shoes that people wear sometimes where is the damn checkout? oh over there. cash or card cash or card what's the total strange looking cashier girl. wipe those eyes off your face. well crap. one more dollar and i could've paid cash for these socks. probably should've tipped that waitress less last night. enjoy my halfhearted pleasantries, cashier girl*

*where is my car, i can't hit anyone with my car, that'd be terrible*

*okay there it is. puttputtputtputtputtputt ZZZZZZZOOOOOOOMMMMMM lord I hate driving*

*man, traffic is so terrible. in hell, all you must do is wait in traffic. with red lights and rubbernecking and big cars you can't see around. i guess i could blog about all this. but people hated James Joyce so there's no way any of this drivel could get off the ground. great.*