Every day is pretty much the same. Wake up. Grind the barnacles off my teeth with some neon-colored futuristic looking plastic doohickey.I feel hung over but i don't party.No more lucky socks so i'll probably have a crappy day,I'm down to mismatched pairs.
Some of them are way too tight and i wonder if my feet ever fit in them. The ones with holes drive me crazy,but somehow they survive.I want to throw them away so bad but they just keep coming back,like that crackhead that jacks cigarette butts from the shop ashtray.Am i really that old? Fuck.I am. Get to work sailor.
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