Why is there a hole in my sock?

The bell rings, and I know that the time has come for me to rise from my moderately uncomfortable plastic throne. The mass of bodies stands around me, scrambling to go their separate ways without falling down onto the tile floor. But the world is silent to me; I can hear my own blood rushing through my head and the pounding of my heartbeat.

I take a deep breath, and prepare myself for the horrific atrocity of what I am about to do. A hand grips my shoulder tight; my friend nods at me, assuring me that I will survive. Slowly, I rise to my feet, feigning confidence in myself, then I feel it. The rough texture of the bottom of my shoe rubbing against my bare foot. It takes all of the will power I possess to keep from crying out in perfect agony.

The only thought that I can decipher in my rushing mind is “Why? Why is this happening to me? Why is there a hole in my sock?!”

I attempt a step towards the stairs that will lead me to my first class. As if the class itself wasn’t excruciating enough, I must now fight for my life just to reach the door. Despite my demon’s mightiest attempts, my lucky stars seem to be shining down on me, for the journey is not too far, and my foot is only moderately tortured.

As the day drags on, seemingly forever, my insanity only grows worse. Come lunchtime, when I actually have to walk more than I prefer on a good day, I am ready to throw my shoe off and light my holy sock on fire. At this point, no sock at all would be a sweet relief compared to the torturous pain of the rough surface of my shoe grinding against my sensitive pinkie toe.

By this time the only thing I can think is: I just want to go home; I didn’t ask for this. I don’t need this kind of negativity in my life right now. This feeling is worse than going to Taco Bell and asking for water and being handed some tiny, disappointing little plastic cup.

Hopefully, it has become apparent what this hole in my sock has done to me; I can’t focus on anything. I’m trying to talk about some silly, little water cup now instead of what I’m actually supposed to be talking about.

The worst part of it all is that my fellow classmates are completely oblivious to my plight. They don’t know my pain and my suffering. They are sadly, hopelessly unaware of my struggles. I am perfectly, utterly alone in the darkness of my weathered sock.

But no longer will I be alone. I have an out, and I intend on exploiting it at every opportunity. My insanity and rage will not go bottled up in my mind only to be let out on poor defenseless children who tell me how comfortable their new socks are. For my blog (www.witahims.wordpress.com) has been born.