The man in the ankle socks

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.

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