I had this goddamn box of single socks that I drug from Minneapolis to Aurora to Fort Collins.
Every two months or so for five years, I dumped out the goddamn box of single socks and laboriously laid them across the floor trying to find matches for them, and although I always found matches for at least a couple, the collection just grew and grew.
During a positive patch, I'd make a sock puppet, and during a carefree patch, I'd let the kids stuff them into punching bags, but mostly, they just sat in the closet, oppressing me with my over-dramatic interpretations of what they meant, these goddamn socks.
The collection kept growing and growing until one night a few weeks ago in an attempt to just move on, I marched the entire box of goddamn single socks out to the garbage can, and I wiped my hands of them.
But I've done the laundry a few times since then, and there's two or three or four goddamn single socks sitting on the edge of the dining room table and the edge of the dresser...
and the fuckers are getting ready to take over.