Dear Missing Sock
Well played sir. Somewhere in-between the spin cycle and the dryer — you made a daring escape. Possibly it was premeditated and you hatched this plan in the hamper, as you nestled against my dirty Denver Bronco’s shirt, whom bitched about my sweaty armpits. What were your motives behind this sudden disappearance? To pursue a career in Hollywood — as a sock puppet? Did you and your cotton counterpart get into a domestic dispute over which foot you preferred? Did my negligence for clipping my toenails ultimately send you into a mad frenzy — as you could no longer bare the pain of them digging into your fragile fibers? Did you run off with my missing button to start a new life in Sarasota? Perhaps you heard the tale of me blowing my nose directly into one of your species with no regard for their feelings. These are all perplexing questions that I must now live with. However, I demand you return — or I will turn your partner into a rag, or even worse; sell her on the black market — into prostitution slavery. I will not wear her with a miss-match, that is for damn sure. I am 30 years old now. My days of mixing short socks with long, blacks with whites, dress socks with sporty, well, those days are over. Actually, who am I kidding, I will still wear miss-matched socks… regardless, show your face or this bitch will get the scissor treatment, resulting in a slow painful death.