I miss my woollen socks.
All of 'em.
I can't begin to describe the pure bliss of just smacking on a pair of them and stroll around like a fucking boss. Because that is what you become.
Woollen socks make you a boss.
A champion.
A winner.
The top dog.
Number one.
The victor.
The wo/man.
Hell yeah! What's not to love!?
I miss them. Woollen socks, man. Woollen socks.
OH MY GOD I NEED MY WOOLLEN SOCKS, I AM, LIKE, CRAVING THEM, SOMEWHAT! LIKE A CHOCOLATE BAR (WHICH INCIDENTALLY I AM ALSO CRAVING. JESUS CHRIST ON A STICK, I NEED ALL THE MONEY TO BUY ALL THE CHOCOLATES!!) ONLY IT'S FOR MY FEET! AAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaa...!
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Yeah. This was written like a week/two weeks ago, my mind was ridden with madness from not having super-warm feet. This is my mind, dudes.
My sanity has probably knit itself a warm and cosy area in my brain where it hangs out. Impenetrable by all outside forces. That's wool for ya. Impenetrable from the outside. They should make bullet-proof vests out of it. Otherwise known as "vests".
Take my word for it. I know what I am talking about.
Well.
I should mention my feet are now cloaked by the delicious wool my forefathers made. From the deepest valleys to the highest mountains, the sheep grassed and grew stronger and more powerful wool than anyone could have anticipated. Little did they know that as their wool grew stronger so did they. They soon took to underground laboratories and made nuclear weapons in order to defend themselves, and soon colonized the entire north of Norway, Sweden, most of Finland and a bit of Russia. They bred into a new breed of sheep called DooMSHEEP:
"Definitely out of Malice, Sheep Hastily Eating Electric Plugs". As you can tell, they don't particularly care for Electric Plugs for some reason. Or maybe they like them a little too much? I guess that is one of those things we'll never really know the answer to.
There have been biologists tracking these sheep down and only one has successfully come back with photographic evidence:
I am not sorry.
Anyway, the ol' ancestors figured out a way to harvest their wool somehow. They stored it in the family Vault/Bunker of Riches, which my family has taken stuff out of for as long as we have kept track of. It's a pretty big vault. Not gonna lie. Well, the socks they made from this wool was so soft and so good at not sucking that they have knitted them for generations. We have a apretty good history of not getting shot where it matters because of it. Which is nice. Nobody wants a toe-less day-to-day existence. The grammar there was flawless.
The socks have been restored now, however.
I am enjoying the sense of safeness now.
I can finally go out and kick people again. I am so happy.