I was ispired by a man in ankle socks. The description itself seems like it should belong to a dark, brooding, mysterious, man you may briefly pass in an airport lounge. The kind of man who wears a long dark trench coat, a pin striped fedora tipped just over his eyes, and carries a dark leather briefcase for no real reason except that he understands it exalts his character. He ought to look at his wrist watch, but he’s so self-assured, with a confidence that can’t be decribed as anything but sexy, that he is the type of man to reach into his coat and pull out a pocket watch. A gold one. He is as unaware as he is aware. You watch him. Untouchable and inpenetrable he seems. But then you drag your gaze downward. You see a patch of skin and the mystery, in a flash, dissipates. And you realize, that this man, this dark, brooding, mysterious man who exudes sexiness, is really an over-compensating, douchy guy with an affinity for socks that don’t cover his ankles.
I dedicate this epic piece of pseudo-journalism to that man.
ex oh.
The Man in the Ankle Socks 