The Case of the Missing Stripe
It happened again this morning. I stood before the open sock drawer, a sense of dread washing over me like a rogue wave of fabric softener. My eyes darted back and forth, scanning rows of neatly paired socks. But something was amiss. Or rather, someone was missing.
The Usual Suspects: Where Do Missing Socks Go?
Now, I consider myself a rational person. I believe in logic, reason, and the laws of physics (well, most of the time). But this sock situation? This defied explanation. I mean, where could they be going?
Over the years, I’ve developed a list of potential culprits:
- The Sock Monster: A mythical creature said to dwell in the deepest recesses of the dryer vent, subsisting on a diet of orphaned socks. (I blame my vivid imagination for this one.)
- The Laundry Vortex: A swirling portal of doom that opens up during the spin cycle, sucking unsuspecting socks into a parallel dimension where everything is mismatched and chaotic.
- My Own Two Feet: Okay, this one is a bit far-fetched, but I have been known to sleepwalk…