Dear Sock Monster:
I write this letter, appealing to your compassionate side. I am sure an all-powerful being like yourself must have a compassionate side, given that you have no need to prove your superiority against mortal beings such as ourselves.
I believe I have made all requisite sacrifices. My favorite pink polka-dotted sock from 1986. That argyle in the early 90's that matched my sweater perfectly. Several of my favorite textured trouser socks in the late 90's. My ski sock in 2004. Oh, and let's not forget the last 12 years of little tiny socks I have contributed along the way.
Which brings me to my appeal. I appreciate your need for sacrifice. Much like the sacrificial lamb offered up to God in days past, the unblemished partner of a pair of fresh socks is our obligation to your omnipresent greatness. Oh, sometimes you let us get a wear or two out of them before we sacrifice, but we sacrifice, nonetheless.
However, you have approached a level of ridiculousness that is reaching plague proportions. Case in point: My seven year old has only two white pair of socks out of the last six-pack we purchased . . . and all of the little black socks have disappeared into your smelly otherworld.
Fortunately, we are square into the lovely California summer months, and flip flops tend to be his choice in footwear. However, in a few months, the chill will come creeping back, and I, as a mother, will be obligated to force him to wear socks again.
I will be purchasing replacement socks in the near future. I have given up hope on you ever returning the mate to one of my favorite pair of Adidas ankle socks and, as such, plan to sacrifice the remaining sock, pristine as it may be. In return, I ask that you spare Son #2's new socks, at least until he has the chance to wear some permanent stains and/or holes in the bottoms.
Respectfully and humbly yours,