As embarrassing as it may be, every time I take off my left sock I realise the extent of the problem. Weirdly enough, when I put it back on the distress evaporates from my head completely. Why did I forget to tell you about it last time we spoke? How did it come to this? The situation has clearly spun out of control, so I decided to take matters in my own hands. I recollected all the parts and arranged them in an orderly manner; then slowly wrapped it in a thick flap of skin like an ungodly roulade. The stitching may have not been the most pleasant part of the process, but it has reassured me that the final effect will be sturdy enough to sustain itself. What is left to be done is covering my creation in dark, icky clay, and baking—approximately until sunset. My initial excitement is now overshadowed by the notion that it may not be entirely easy to convince it to become an integral part of me. Reasoning with it is out of the question, and I am yet to think of an adequate artifice.