A Woeful Tale of Sock Tragedy

So, this weekend I was doing laundry. There's nothing new about this. I do laundry every weekend. I do my laundry and D's laundry, simply because I can't stand the way he does laundry. His laundry method looks like this:

1. Sort laundry into 5-6 piles that make absolutely no sense (We're not talking lights and darks here, people. I have no idea what he's doing).
2. Throw said piles on the bathroom floor.
3. Remember to wash and dry maybe 1 pile per day. Maybe 1 pile per day. Or maybe not.
4. Continue the cyle. Lather, rinse, repeat, etc, etc, etc.

The problem with this laundry method is that it guarantees that at any given time there will be at least 1 pile of laundry on my bathroom floor - more often it's like 3 or 4. Since I simply can't stand random, indiscernable piles of laundry on my bathroom floor all the time, I do the laundry. This is simply how it works at our house.

As I was saying, this weekend I did the laundry. The load of laundry that I absolutely loathe and despise with every fiber of my being is the whites. Why? you ask. I will tell you. I absolutely loathe and despise the white load of laundry because, aside from some athletic socks, I think I own approximately three white clothing items. Three. And two of them are underwear. That's it, folks. I just don't look good in white. D, on the other hand, has enough white undershirts to clothe a third world country. D also refuses to fold said undershirts, so I always get stuck folding away for a good 20 minutes with these stupid shirts that I don't even get to wear. I hate doing the whites because it's a whole lot of work with almost zero benefit to my wardrobe. There, I've said it. Yes, it's very selfish. No, it's not a nice, wifely attitude. But guess what. I hate those f---ing shirts all the same.

So this weekend I gave D a huge pile of white undershirts, nicely folded, to put away. I stuck all his socks on top so he would put them away as well. Yes, I am a nice wife. No, I will not come over and do your laundry. As D was putting his socks away, he found one of my socks. Apparently this unfortunate, rogue sock had somehow made it into D's sock pile and was now in danger of living in one of D's drawers where it would never find a mate or a community of socks with similar values and would forced to live in seclusion at the bottom of the drawer for the rest of it's days. Just as the sock was about to make it's successful entry back into it's community of athletic socks that live in the bottom middle drawer of my dresser, the unthinkable happened:

D declared to me that he had found a traitor amongst his socks - a spy that must pay with it's life for attempting to uncover the secrets of sock organization and correct sock matching within his drawer. I pleaded on behalf of my sock, but to no avail. D left the room, came back with a pair of scissors, held the sock up in front of my face, and cut it in half.

Yes, he cut my sock in half.

For no apparent reason. Except, of course, sock espionage.

This is my reward for folding an army's worth of those damn undershirts.