Dear Mr. Spin,
Let me start off by thanking you for the wonderful job that you do. I know it isn’t easy. I certainly would not want to take on the job you excel at, because I would be terrible. (
I also don’t want my arms to fall off, but that’s a different issue.)
I know that turning and spinning day after day gives you quite a big appetite. That’s why I spend such exorbitant amounts of money to feed you with electricity. So, why – why have you begun to eat my socks?
My socks – my brightly coloured ones, my dark ones, my patterned ones, my plain ones – all of them are extremely close to my heart! So how could you begin to eat them? You of all (ahem) objects should know how I feel about my socks! Am I not giving you enough electricity? Am I not providing you with sufficient amounts of water that’s been treated with detergent? Am I not doing everything I possibly could to make you feel comfortable?
So why have you begun to eat my socks?
You never take anything else. Only my socks, my prized possessions! Scarves, shirts, skirts – you name it – but no. Only my socks.
Since when do you thrive on woven or felted fabric made from wool, cotton, or similar fibres? Since when do you charge for your services in socks? Since when do you start treating my socks as food when you already have enough to last you a lifetime? Are they really that delectable?
In fact, at the beginning I believed it was a feature of yours that I had missed when I decided to buy you. Then, when it reached the point of my having to wear mismatched socks one day, I pulled out your instruction manual. There it was – plain and clear – Runs only on electricity. Socks aren’t even a part of your diet!
What do you do with my socks? Where do you hide them? Tell me, my good sir! I know that you know that I know that you have my amazing socks! Return them to me! You must! You are obligated to!
Besides, you know what really gets underneath my skin? You can’t even eat the same pair! I mean, what use is a patterned blue sock and a plain black sock to me? Apart from the fact that I’ll end up the laughing stock of town? Huh? Do you understand even the least bit of what I’m trying to say?
If you really must know, I have exactly seven white socks, nine blue ones, and several other odd numbers of patterned and plain. I do not plan on giving them to you, since all you do is eat them. All I ask is that you return my precious socks so I don’t have to go out looking like a lunatic who feels perfectly normal wearing a bright green polka dot sock on my left and a striped red and blue one on my right.
That’s all I have to say.
Stop eating my socks. They are not food.
Catch you later!