IT SNORES!

Upon returning home after a walk with a pipe, shadows in the hallway seen out of the corner of my eye looked for all the world like a row of hanging fruitbats having a slumber. No, I don't live in a cave or mango orchard. And it turns out that they were, in fact, socks on a rack suspended from a closet door. Warm soft comforting socks.

Clean socks are a blessing.

As are fruitbats.


This being San Francisco, we have bats, and fruits. Not the mix of two.

Socks are a poor substitute for bats, but far less personable.

When socks have personalities, it's trouble.

Abandonment issues.

Like all bachelors, I have socks where they do not belong. Under my bed, where upon getting ready to retire for the night I kicked them, and overlooked them for long periods of time. They moan in the darkness, feeling forlorn and rather like unappreciated members of the wardrobe. Has big stinky feeter forgotten us, they wail, have we been forsaken?
Then, when I need a clean pair, I may rediscover them and wash them.
Preparatory to a new round of podal abuse.

The socks hanging from the closet door are clean socks. There are two closets in the hallway. Both of them have socks hanging from the doors. Not fruitbats.
Something feels missing.



I'm kind of certain my apartment mate does not have lonely socks under her bed.
She's rather anal in some ways.
Neat.

No, she does not have fruitbats either.



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