i continue to find socks, tangled and tucked away in my bed sheets. i always have cold feet and yet, cannot manage to keep my warm, woolen socks on throughout my restless (often sleepless) nights. despite being a firm believer in order and neatness, i rarely manage to make my bed in the mornings. my mother, a devout bed-maker, would be disappointed and feel as though she failed. Mine was a household that demanded that a bed be neat and tidy, reflecting calm and rest, no matter what the previous night looked like. another rule: hanging towels just after your body was dry and you had enough clothing to decently walk from bedroom to bathroom. this, unlike hospital corners and folded down quilts, did stick (though I must admit when I choose to, I can fucking make a bed with military precision.) So, socks. Because I am neglectful, I often share my bed with several nights of ridiculously bright, boldly-patterned mismatched socks. for chocolat, they are toys...yet another distraction in an arena of untold entertainment for our lazy beast. for me, strangely enough, unearthing my damn socks has become a bit of a game.  and there is something to be said for cold feet...perhaps a representation of the (my) Self. 

Yes, this was a post about my socks.