The Quest At End

I'm down to five. Five left socks left. Five with no partner to return to the fold. Two are new and I feel really bad for them, the other three...well I knew their fate long ago. Still, I'd hope to find the match for all of 'em but I didn't. And I'm a bit sad about that. I don't wanna tell 'em I stopped searching for their match but I did (days ago, if truth be told). Now, as the wife keeps naggin' about them and I keep having to walk over them as I get up, I know a decision must be made. I have to let them go. I have to chuck 'em into the trash. I want to save one in particular (an expensive off-brown one with detailed embroidery across it's top) but it would only prolong the inevitable. I saved almost thirty five of my socks by actively seeking out their life mates but I can only think about the five I lost. The five I failed.

Oddly, I discovered over the years I also own hosiery: little thin, dainty socks that can stretch all the way up to my sack'n'crack. Maybe I was a Russian ballerina in a past life.