I’ve been wearing odd socks for the last few days—not the same odd socks; today’s are purple and grey stripes left, orange and grey stripes right—and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s by far the best way to wear them—at least for me. Because, you see, I am odd socks. Metaphorically. Neither one thing or another, really, but a mixture. And glad to be so.
In a world that loves—seemingly needs—to categorise everything into little, easily-preconceived packages, being somewhere in between, or in a superposition of states, like some sort of unobserved quantum pigeon, not yet holed, has its challenges. But I value my individuality, eschewing arbitrary concensus-based trends such as fashion, so I shall continue to wear—and be—odd socks.