one dirty sock

Love how my general oc tag is Laysocs because someone pointed out how it looked like Lay socks, so yes. Get a glance at my socks.

We have this one sorta dirty sock I call her Cecilia, but she’s dirty because she’s p comfy to use so i mean.

I also have this one sock I’ve had for years called Ravelord because it’s a v funky sock even tho its hella old.

Also check out this one buff sock, perfect for running because it can soak up some sweat, I named her Helena. A v tough sock.

I also have this one sock-

Downpour

My boyfriend, Bailey, texted me while I was on my way back from my trip to Colorado to tell me that he was “serious this time” about getting sober. It was a feat he claimed that he would overcome many a-time in the three years that I had known him, but somehow, I knew that things were actually about to change.

I passed the threshold of his front door after my week-long absence. He wasn’t home. I noticed that the stench of incense and weed had vanished. The trash bins were emptied, and not one pair of his dirty socks were on the floor. I made my way towards the back room. Flipping on the light, I saw that his usual assortment of half-empty prescription bottles and hollow beer cans were gone from their usual nesting place atop the dresser. I shrugged the long handle of my purse up over my head and tossed it, along with my suitcase, onto the bare mattress. I had my own place, but I slept in his bed more than my own. He had stopped using a fitted sheet because he got tired of shoving the soaked wad of fabric in the washing machine all the time. As irritating and as gross as it was, I never complained about waking up in puddles of his sweat, because I knew that when he would perspire in his sleep, it just meant he was going through withdrawal, and withdrawal meant he wasn’t using, even if it was for typically less than eight hours at a time.

I had tried, and failed, to wean him off of substances for years. I peeled his half-conscious body off of a grimy bathroom floor before we even started going out. That’s when I realized that he had a problem. We had gone to a party together as friends, but at some point, he wandered off to use the restroom, and ended up passing out on the ground because he was too faded to work the door handle. Another time, a year into dating, he decided to get wasted in the middle of the day, puked all over himself, and wet his own pants. I made him sit cross-legged under the running showerhead because he was too heavy to hold up and bathe at the same time. I remember I had to repeatedly tell him to stop squirming so that I could rinse him off. After I toweled him dry, he kept saying, “I’m so, I’m so sorry, between sobs. So many times, he’d come home late smelling like a brewery; smelling like cigarettes, smelling like God-knows-what, slurring his words to the point I couldn’t even make out what he was trying to say. Looking around his newly-cleaned apartment, I felt a wave of relief to see him embrace his own recovery for once.

I pulled my phone out from the back pocket of my shorts, and tapped open Bailey’s text thread. My fingertips danced against the screen as I typed. “Hey, Sunshine! You were right! You really tidied up the place while I was gone! Looks nice!” The long, blue text bubble appeared under a stream of many others.

It was a Sunday, so I knew Bailey was at his parent’s place. Otherwise, he’d have been there to welcome me back. He went home every weekend to attend church with his family. I glanced at the clock on the wall. I knew from experience that his after-church commute from Newcastle to Norman was typically a thirty-minute drive, but he was almost half an hour late. Probably stuck in traffic, I hoped.

I unzipped my over-stuffed luggage and lifted a stack of folded blouses out from its interior. A slightly lumpy paper sack was hiding there, snug underneath the garments. I grabbed it, smoothed the wrinkles as best I could, and set it atop the coffee table before going to the kitchen. Huh, he even did the dishes. I went over to the counter and picked one of the upside-down glasses from the drying rack. One by one, I put all of the items away. The monotony of the work put my mind at ease as I waited and wondered what was taking him so long. Suddenly, my phone buzzed, and I immediately reached for it. My thumb hovered over the message on the glowing screen. “Got away late. Be there soon,” it said. He wasn’t a big texter. Figures. Always running on “Bailey” time. With a sigh, I left my phone on the table and went to go lie down on the couch. My eyelids fluttered shut.

I awoke to the sound of keys clanking against the knob. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and blinked at my boyfriend’s shadowy silhouette in the doorway. Somehow, his slender, ghost-like figure appeared to me as being both familiar and strange. I noticed that his button-up was ironed. It was the same button-up he wore on our first date. It hung looser on him these days. Over time, the drugs had turned him into a skeleton of a person, both literally and figuratively. He closed the door behind him and slipped the strap of his backpack off his shoulder and onto the floor under the front window.

“Hey Nicole,” he said. His baby blues met mine. It sounded odd to hear him speak my name. He had barely called me Nicole since we began dating two years ago.

“Hey, babe.” I sat up and against the armrest and grinned up at him. “Look, I brought you some souvenirs!” I pointed to the crinkled brown sack. He glanced over at it, then cocked his head towards me.

“I told you, you didn’t have to do that,” he said as he slipped off his sneakers, laces still tied, and kicked them next to his lounging backpack.

“Yeah, I know. But I wanted to.” His birthday was a day before I left for my trip, and I had treated him to dinner and drinks, but I felt like I had slipped up on his last-minute gift. “That lousy picture frame just wasn’t enough. So I got you a few special things while we were out around Pikes Peak.”

He bent over me. I puckered my lips, but his passed mine as he gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll be right back, I have to use the bathroom.”

“All right.” I watched as he walked towards the restroom across the room. He shoved the old door closed behind him. I heard the tink of porcelain. “You know,” I spoke up, “my mom and I went to this little shop in the city, and it had a bunch of cool loungewear and stuff. Did you notice my new shirt? I bought some sweatpants, too.”

A few moments passed in silence before he emerged. I twirled the end of my hair around my finger as I babbled about my trip. He walked over and sat down at the other end of the couch.

“Listen,” he cut off my monologue and reached over to silence my animated, moving hands. “Um. I’ve been thinking… you know I texted you earlier about something I needed to talk to you about?”

I turned my torso towards him, adjusted myself as to sit on my foot, and pushed my side bangs behind my ear. “Yeah, what’s up?” Here goes the ‘for-real getting clean this time’ spiel, I thought.

He reached out and touched my knee, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. His skin was cold and clammy, like his feet would be when they’d brush my bare legs in the night, so I knew he wasn’t on anything. “You know, I’ve been feeling sort of weird about my life lately.”

I squeezed his hand. “Is this about your wanting to get sober?”

“Uh, yeah, kind of—“

“I know it’s always hard to adjust to the transition— but like I’ve said before, baby steps are totally normal, and you know I’m absolutely here for you.” I nodded.

“Listen, babe, uh, that’s not it. Well, it is, but, uh, I don’t know how to say this…” He trailed off, looking out the window as he grasped for the words. I felt queasy. “I feel like I’ve been lying to myself for a while—“

“Huh?” I eased my grip on his hand. “What do you mean?” Was he getting at what I thought he was getting at?

I looked into his eyes. It appeared as though he hadn’t slept in days. He reminded me of an old, abandoned building; empty on the inside, and the longer you look at it, the more you wonder how exterior scaffolding is even standing up. “I don’t think… I don’t think this is what I want anymore.”

“Wait… what?” I held my breath. I didn’t know what to say. I was confronting my denial head-first as my worst fear had just been confirmed. But to quote author Natalie Sandiford, “even when you know what’s coming, you’re never prepared for how it feels.”

In that moment, it felt like someone had punched me in the gut and had ahold of my wind-pipe. I pulled my leg away from his hand and stood, looking away towards the blank television. Each second felt like an eternity. My hands began to involuntarily shake. I felt like I was having a panic attack. I turned away from him and tried not to blink. I wondered what I could have done differently. I wondered what I had done so wrong that my druggie boyfriend was the one dumping me.

“I know, I’m sorry I’m doing this now,” he said, and wiped his fingers up his sweaty forehead and into the wavy blonde of his hair. “But there’s never a good time to break-up with someone, you know? I’d been thinking about bringing it up with you for a while—“

“Oh yeah? For awhile?” My mind was moving a mile a minute. “Why not just wait until after your girlfriend drops her whole paycheck on you at the pub for your twenty-third, not to mention sleep with her the night before she leaves for a week!”

He opened his mouth, and he inhaled sharply “Well, I mean, I didn’t think— I just need a break… I need to get my life back on track—“

I was barely listening to him at this point. “You didn’t think of sparing me the humiliation sooner?” I closed my eyes and breathed deeply for a moment. “What was that? Some sort of last hurrah? Am I just another high to you? Just another drunken mistake?” I figured he’d actually get serious about getting sober at some point, but I could hardly believe I was getting thrown out to the curb like just another good-time drug.

“No! I know, I never should have let that happen— I, I was all boozed up, and you know how it goes, it just got to me, and you just sort of turned me on, and you—“

“Me? You’re the one who let it happen! So, what else, did you cheat on me, too?”

“God, no! You know me better than that! I wouldn’t do that!” He looked at me with those innocent, puppy-dog eyes of his.

He kept speaking in an attempt to explain himself, but I felt like I was in a tunnel. Or underwater, and his voice was far above the surface. As he spoke, his hands were buried in his pockets. He pursed his lips into in a frown, and he merely watched as I went into the kitchen and yanked his birthday card off of the fridge. Wishing a very happy birthday to a man, I opened it up, who has great taste in women. Signed, your dearest girlfriend with a badly penned-in wink face. I rolled my eyes and shook my head at my own stupidity. Tears brimmed my eyes as tore it in two and threw it in the empty trashcan. I walked over to the collection of pretty wine bottles that we had accumulated from anniversaries, birthdays, promotions, at-home dinner dates, and hurled them in the trash, as well. They made a loud cracking noise as they hit the bottom of the can.

I rushed into the bedroom. He followed after me. Looking around, seeing my own belongings mixed in with his put knots in my throat. “What are you doing?” he asked.

I stormed up to the recliner in the corner of the room, grabbing the fuzzy arm of the giant teddy bear he had gotten me for our one year, and yanked off of the chair. I had jokingly named him Barry when he was first gifted to me. He was worn from cuddles, and his sewn-on bow-tie was hanging by a thread. I hoisted the stuffed giant up onto my chest. “Getting out of your hair,” I said. “Excuse me,” I shoved past him and out to the dumpster across the street. I let out a grunt as I tossed the bear over the metal siding. If I have to sleep alone now, so does Bailey, I thought. I was growling with anger. We knocked sides when I walked back through the front door, and I slammed it behind me as hard as I could.

“Listen, Nic, I know you’ll be going through a lot of emotions right now, and I know you’re mad at me, but you need to calm down!” He had me by the upper arms. His grip was firm, but not forceful. “Come on, let’s talk.” With his hand on the curve of my lower back, he led me to sit down next to him.

“I’m sort of mad at you, but I’m mostly mad at myself.” I wiped my forearm on my nose. I had almost broken it off with him once before. After getting notice from my bank statements that I’d been withdrawing an unusual amount from ATMS, I found out that he’d been stealing from me to pay back dealer. He gave me back half of what he had taken, and he begged me, he begged me not to leave him. Part of me wishes he had let me let him go, just to save myself four extra months of wasted time.

“I know… I’m so sorry. I promise, I never meant to hurt you,” I was surprised to see that his eyes were welling up. I wondered if they were alligator tears, but looking back, I don’t think they were. However, in hindsight, I think he was crying more in pity for himself than the loss of me. I looked over and noticed his belated-birthday gift in the paper sack.

“A brown paper package, tied up with a string, filled up with a few of your favorite things.” The permanent marker message stared blankly at me from atop the coffee table. I sat motionless beside it. I pushed the sack towards him.

“You know I can’t accept whatever is in there,” he said.

“I want you to open it.” My voice cracked. I felt a fog of sadness shroud around me as I pushed it closer to him. He obliged.

He unfolded the top of the sack. He stuck his hand inside, and rummaged through it. He pulled out a pair of silver nail clippers attached to a keychain with a mountain emblem on the side. He grinned at them.

“So you stop stealing mine all the time,” I said, “And you’ll never lose it since it goes on your keyring.”

“That’s thoughtful.” It clanked against the wood of the coffee table as he gently set it down. Next, he pulled out a bar of soap. He read the label. “Lotion Bar Café Beer Soap. Hand crafted. Made with beehive honey wheat.” He held it up to his nose and sniffed. “Beehives, huh? Well, it smells good.”

“I knew you’d like that.” He hated using my scented, foamy body wash. He thought it left a weird film on his skin.

“My dad would get a kick out of it,” he said. I agreed. The two of them bonded over the labor of making homemade beer back in Newcastle.

“I didn’t even like beer until I met your dad,” I said.

He chuckled. “Yeah, he’s quite the persuasive man when it comes to his famous Schwartz homebrew.” I was going to miss his dad. And his mom, and his two brothers, and his younger sister. I especially miss his cat.

He set the soap next to the nail clippers before pulling the final item out of the bag. Small and square, he held it up. “What’s this?”

I pointed to the knob. “It’s a music box. You crank this to make it play. Since you’re so musically inclined,” I said. He had played a number of instruments from a young age.

“Ah, yes,” he said, and set it down, as well, and let out a long sigh. “Thank you, so much. Really. You’ve always been so patient, so thoughtful with me. But you know I can’t keep these.” He brushed a tear from the tip of my nose.

“Well, I want you to choose one to keep.”

“You sure?”

I nodded.

“I don’t know which one to take, though.” He shook his head. “I just wouldn’t feel right.”

I grabbed the nail clippers, placed them in his palm, and closed his fingers around it. “Keep this one. I already have mine, anyways. I want you to have it.” I got up to go to the bedroom, and came back with my purse. I opened it up and pulled at my pink, pom-pom key-chain. I took his extra house key off, and handed it over to him. I didn’t want to stay somewhere I was no longer wanted. Besides, I hadn’t truly lost him that day; the drugs had already taken him from me long ago.

“Well, thanks,” he said. I rested my head on his shoulder. A moment passed in silence before he leaned over and gave me a peck on the forehead. He turned the key thrice in hand and stared at it for a second. He shifted his weight to grab his keys from his back pocket, then attached my spare and the clippers. The metal of the two clinked together.

He stood up. “Let’s go for a drive. I can help you pack your things up later. We can talk more in the car.”

“Okay,” I said. My nostrils were sore and congested from snot, my face warm from crying, and my vision blurred from melted mascara. I lifted my arm to wipe the dripping tears from my face, taking a smear of makeup with them. I didn’t bother wiping off the mess.

He walked off to grab my suitcase, then outside to tote it out to his truck.

“Be right there,” I said. But I stayed behind for a moment. The back of my thighs felt cold against the leather of the couch cushion. I leaned over and grabbed the tiny music box off of the coffee table. I placed the gold dial between my pointer and my thumb. Gently, I cranked it. As I did, the teeth of the steel comb rubbed against the pins of the revolving cylinder. The chimes echoed around the room. I swallowed the sob stuck down in my throat, and hummed along with the familiar tune. I could hardly accept it the irony of the bittersweet lyrics.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine… you make me happy when skies are grey… you’ll never know, dear, how much I love you…

Please don’t take my sunshine…

away…

goggles-mcgee  asked:

What about headcannons for a drunk Keith? (I personally see him as a giggler, that or a sad drunk. Either or XD)

Keith is the kind of drink to spill all his secrets when drunk. Like hell say anything. He’ll speak his mind. It’s…an experience.

So one day the gang gets this alien juice and sooner than later everyone (yes even you Coran) are totally shitfaced.

At some point in the night Keith begin spilling everyone’s dirty little secrets he’s picked up. He can be kind when needed and as a result he’s picked up on a lot of dirty secrets.

Shiro sings in the shower
Lance will have staring contests with space. He figures the star shining more or less is equivalent to blinking
Pidge likes to pull her pants up real high tuck in her shirt and do the ‘confidence walk’ when she’s alone
Allura is the one leaving dirty socks around. It’s her.
Coran is the one putting pepper in people’s food.
And Hunk wears a hair net when he’s cooking.

A Year Every Minute Pt. 74

Papyrus was home doing laundry when his cellphone rang. He dug around in the pocket of his jeans for it, flipping it open to see ‘ALPHYS’ in large letters across its front. With a smile he accepted the call, holding the phone up to where his ear would have been while he began loading in the laundry with his free hand.

“HELLO ALPHYS! HOW IS-” He was abruptly cut off as the lizard on the other end began to ramble on and on, something about things going wrong and Sans being hurt. “WAIT, ALPHYS SLOW DOWN.” Papyrus said worriedly, standing up straight and dropping one of Sans’ dirty socks back into the basket.

“I-i-it’s Sans! He-he’s hurt! We t-tried… oh god. Oh god…” Alphys mumbled from the other end.

Papyrus swallowed the lump in his nonexistent throat. “I’LL BE RIGHT THERE.”

He hung up and threw everything down, racing for the door and shoving on his boots before jumping into his car. He had only recently learned to drive but was surprisingly good at it and it wasn’t exactly his dream car, but that would come soon enough.

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#1967. Whenever Ness gets too tired to use his psychic powers in battle, he'll throw whatever he can get his hands on at his opponents instead. Last time he nearly ran out of energy, he ended up using both of his shoes, one of his dirty socks, a cookie, his yo-yo, all the contents of his backpack, and his backpack as ranged weapons.