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Sock it to me

I just finished a double load of laundry and found myself left with 16…SIXTEEN!!!…unmatched socks. I’m humbled. Honestly, I never thought you guys would top your old record of 11 socks, but that just shows what I get for doubting you boys.

I want you to know I see and appreciate how you’ve gone above and beyond the mundane routes of simply kicking socks under the kitchen table or behind the sofa. Instead, you’ve elevated it to an art form, wedging one sock behind the toilet downstairs but removing the other in a different location entirely.

You’ve left socks upstairs and down, inside and out. Sometimes, I find I’m too gauche to understand it all. Your filling the cup-holder of my car with an especially odiferous piece of artwork…was this an avant garde observation of the transient nature of fashion?

If so, then your abandonment of one lone sock in the middle of the living room rug was obviously a poignant existential statement on the solitary nature of man. I’m tearing up just thinking about it.

You boys are truly artists — achieving a level of proficiency I would have thought unattainable until your mid-teens. As your mother, I can only do my part by providing you with an ongoing supply of your chosen medium. I’ve brought in 14 new pairs of socks today, but I know in my heart, exactly half will have disappeared before Thanksgiving.

I anticipate your next installation soon!

Sincerely, your biggest fan and patron,


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