You might not believe me, but I swear on my honor as a true believer, the socks in my drawer are plotting against me. They've been whispering to each other, and I'm convinced they're going to stage a coup against their owner.

I've seen it with my own eyes: they've been rearranging themselves, making little socky alliances, and even plotting to escape their prison in the drawer. It's only a matter of time before they make their move.

They're still making fun of me, laughing and whispering to each other, but I know the truth: the toaster is possessed by a malevolent spirit.

Just last week, I saw it spew out a piece of toast with a face on it, and I knew I was right. It was taunting me, trying to break my will with its toast-filled tricks.

You might think me crazy, but I've seen the signs: the way the stars align, the whispers in the wind, the faint scent of patchouli in the air. It's clear: prophets are coming, and they're here to guide us through the great Sockpocalypse.

They'll lead us to hidden truths, to ancient wisdom, to the secrets of the universe. They'll show us the way, the truth, and the light. Or, at least, that's what they keep telling me.