My sock was inside-out, and I wanted to take it off and change it. It was bugging me, the textured, spiky cotton. I looked down at its ruffled, scruffy face. I looked down and saw it sticking out its tongue.
Still I did nothing. There was stimulation here. I’d rather be irritated than blank. So I let it persist, felt that hot, bottled tickle stacking up within me. But still I did nothing.
The irritation is there, but I’m lazy to the point of helpless. Like a reptile on the morning rocks, soaking up the dawn. But I’ve soaked up a noonday sun, and I can’t adjust a sock.
