Swollen Squalor

I've escaped work early. 

Well, early is an interesting way to put it considering it's 5:30. When your workday usually ends past 7:00, this is early. I feel like I've gotten away with something I wasn't supposed to, like I might get caught and punished for leaving when I did.  I'm praying they don't randomly inspect my office and find the man-sized hole I've cut into the wall with a spork, hidden behind the Alan Turing poster. Just read the remainder of this post in the voice of Morgan Freeman. 

What will I do with my few free hours? Why, that's simple: more work of course. I have to do the chores that I haven't had time for since Friday. You know, like laundry. I've been wearing the same pair of 5-year-old red boxers with worn out elastic, holes in the front and back - they're so ripped and tattered that it's difficult to tell which side is which when putting them on - stained and stinking of stale urine and faintly reeking of feces. The skid-marks are so plentiful that it looks like miniaturized motorcyclists had a 'who could do the most doughnuts' contest on them.

Then there's my feet. Forget athlete's foot, I have tri-athlete's foot. My socks hang off my feet like used condoms, elastic gone, full of stinking sweat that my feet swim in like fish. They creep off of my toes as though trying to escape the funk. But inside my shoe, there is nowhere to run.

All of the clothes I've been wearing are from the 'wear in case of emergency' pile: the clothes of last resort. The kind of abandoned articles you'd paint a house in, or use as rags when cleaning a spill. They have all the allure of a dirty pillow in the street.

But no more. Soon I'll vanquish the fat bag of dirty clothes, currently hiding in the dark recesses of my closet, like a lazy and limbless dragon. I will slay it, armed with a clothespin clamped upon my nose, shielded from its foul and mildewed breath. 

A bag of soiled garments, like a disembodied stomach, swollen by the sordid remnants of days passing.