Made in China

I’m feeling inadequate today and then oddly inspired and wanting to run run. Walking in the rain to the library, I avoided small puddles on the wrong side of things, knowing even spit would seep into my shoes and get my white socks wet. I wear white socks. Man white socks. My boyfriend hates it since we always get our socks confused – HE always gets our socks confused. I know exactly what my socks look like – the fabric, the hems, the gold tips. They warm my chronically cold feet and I know them like a diabetic knows insulin.
There’s a hard frost advisory tonight. I’ll be under my down. Tula, every morning, still wants to venture outside. I don’t know why.
My $10 cheap-ass umbrella, bought desperately in NYC at a souvenir shop, stuck and bit my fingers. The prongs caving in on themselves, metallic broken arms. I cursed the water salivating my bag. But at least it worked – enough to keep my head dry. And then I noticed a man farther down the street, his pink umbrella soaked through, drops on his coat and head. The whole time he was running from rain on the inside.

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