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Dear Article of Clothing,
I am doomed. I am trapped with idiotic, jolly imbeciles who cannot comprehend the situation I now find myself in.Something quite tragic has occurred, and I fear that the effects may be irreversible. As I write, my enigmatic future awaits me, taunting me with its secrets and mysteries. I can only hope for the best at this point.
It was a day just like any other. I was pulled onto one of the biped’s paws, just like always, and of course I thought little of it. What is a sock to do, anyway? The bipeds always have to pull socks on their paws. I suppose I haven’t thought much of it. But I was quite unprepared for the strange event that would soon take place. I never paused to reflect upon my grim future, and nor could I have predicted such a disastrous occurrence.
After a hard day’s work, I am to be placed into a hamper. Do not question it, or therefore this whole process, for I have done so before and it causes me much grief to understand for what purpose this is performed. So I was placed into this hamper, among various other clothing like towels and shorts, and we politely greeted each other as clothes normally do. After a period of waiting, the bipeds toss us into this large, dark box, where we are greeted at the bottom by a pool of soapy water. We silently watch as the top of the box closes down, and as the darkness closes in on us. This is when the whirlpool begins. Now, mind you, I know this story must sound absurd to those of you who have not endured this process, but you must bear with me. I cannot fathom how a whirlpool managed to fit itself inside a box, nor can I fathom how the whirlpool conveniently begins its temper tantrum every time the darkness surrounds us. Perhaps the whirlpool is a living thing, and it does not want to be seen, or perhaps the light hurts it. Whatever the case, we slosh around in this horrid whirlpool for no apparent reason until the beast calms down. It must be intelligent enough to know when the lid will rise, for soon after it has stopped, light once again pours down on us. We thank our lucky seams that we have survived yet another encounter with that writhing, photophobic monster, and as the bipeds lift us out of the box, we move to the next phase of the cycle: the drought.
The new clothes think the first box is the last step in the cycle, so of course they believe themselves to be free. Pity the newcomers. Their optimism provides brief amusement for the more experienced clothing such as myself. Their mood quickly deteriorates as they are taken from the first box to the second, and their minds are left to wander. What will this one be like? Is this worse than the first one? We are tossed into the next box at a rather odd angle; instead of being dropped from the top, we are thrown in sideways. I suspect that this box has fallen on its side. Once more, we all watch as the light is flushed out while the lid shuts. This time, however, there is no pool of water awaiting us, nor a raging whirlpool anxiously waiting to strike. There are, in fact, two things that await us in the second box. The first is this intense heat, an immortal heat that saps every ounce of will and determination from your body and gobbles it up for its own selfish needs. This is why we call it the drought; every last drop of water we absorbed seems to flee our bodies in fear of the searing heat. The second thing, while not as vicious, causes complete frustration and humiliation to its hapless victims. Whatever it is, it violently spins us around and around, as if the floor itself were spinning. My observations have led me to believe that this could quite possibly be a round conveyor belt, with each end connecting to the other. Anyway, after our exhausting encounter with the drought, the bipeds drag us out and stuff us into a drawer or some other fashion of containment to be worn again in the near future.
But this is where it all went wrong. I have not been placed into a container like usual. Instead, I have been placed directly into the hamper. The clothes warmly greeted me, but I could not comprehend the misfortune that had just accompanied me. I do not belong here yet! How could this happen? I do hope this is mere coincidence. Yes, I must stay optimistic for my future. Perhaps I will discover a way to escape this forsaken hamper, for if I stay here, I will inevitably endure the boxes again. You must understand, one must recuperate from such trauma, and I have not yet recovered, physically or mentally.
So I write this to save the future generations. If you are reading this, please be aware of the dangers that lie ahead. The boxes themselves are traumatic enough to make those of white coloring change colors. Believe me, I am a witness to this most unfortunate occurrence. If you, too, have been sent to the hamper twice in a row, I apologize, for this letter will be most inconvenient to you. I encourage you to stay hopeful and remain calm. As for me, I will poke around until I discover a way to escape this maddening cycle. Perhaps we may all one day live without the constant dread of the boxes, and instead live with the peace of finally being free. How I do long for that day.
Yours Sincerely,
Sock
- by PepperofSpicyness |
- Fiction
- | Submitted on 03/04/2012 |
- Skip
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