It started innocently enough. I had a few dozen pairs, each one lovingly paired with its mate. But now, I'm down to just one solitary sock. A lone, forlorn sock that stares up at me accusingly.
Perhaps it's the start of a greater existential crisis? Am I doomed to wander the land, forever searching for the missing mate? Or will I find it in the depths of the laundry basket, a siren's call to the lost and the forlorn?
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