F***ing socks
And there's always one of the little shits left over at the end. Staring and leering up at you from the place that all its companions have been taken from.
Every single time you do laundry there is a single sock left over from folding things. You carefully put it at the back of the drawer because the other one is bound to turn up eventually but it never bloody does. Even when you get a spare sock in your next load of laundry you can't make up a whole pair because the odd sock from the last load is no longer in the back of the drawer where you put it.
Why? Where the hell does it go? It's not as though you can have worn the damn thing because there is only one of it, but somehow it's gone. It aggressively and maliciously disappears and you are once again left with one, useless, left-over sock that you have to put in the back of the sodding drawer in case you ever find the other one.
I f***ing hate socks.
Every single time you do laundry there is a single sock left over from folding things. You carefully put it at the back of the drawer because the other one is bound to turn up eventually but it never bloody does. Even when you get a spare sock in your next load of laundry you can't make up a whole pair because the odd sock from the last load is no longer in the back of the drawer where you put it.
Why? Where the hell does it go? It's not as though you can have worn the damn thing because there is only one of it, but somehow it's gone. It aggressively and maliciously disappears and you are once again left with one, useless, left-over sock that you have to put in the back of the sodding drawer in case you ever find the other one.
I f***ing hate socks.