As you might have already presumed, I am a sock. A lovely rainbow toe sock. Well, I think I and my match are lovely. Though every sock does have his own opinion.

You know, socks are never appreciated quite enough. Most people think of us as simply inanimate objects that exist for the sole (no pun intended) purpose of covering one's feet. Socks are not only that. We each have our own personality, our colors. Literally. Our colors show who we are. One of our many purposes is to assist you in showing your color, as you do not have the privilege of being multicolored. Fun people choose fun socks, as boring people choose boring socks. That's how we came to be with our owner, Pair Of Hands. Both my partner and I were in the best of favor, and no signs of wear or tear had appeared yet. *sigh* That was the simple life. The only aspects of sock life were lying in a nice, comfortable drawer, being worn and seeing every kind of place (maybe even getting a compliment!), and being washed and dried. That last part is where my adventure began.

We were sitting in the darkness of the washer, all clean and wet (though slightly dizzy), waiting to be transferred to the dryer. I was thinking toasty thoughts when light flooded our compartment, and Pair Of Hands reached in to grab us. We flew through the air, and landed in the familiar space of the dryer. We were engulfed in darkness yet again, and I heard the controls being flipped. I had just realized that Pair Of Hands had forgotten the Bounce, when suddenly we were off! Warm, wonderful air was blowing as we tumbled around. I collided with one of Pair Of Hands' shirts that I rather detested, then again with Washcloth The Pink. Then, after I untangled myself from Towel The Green, there was a sudden drop. The small amount of light that had filtered in before vanished with the sliding of a disk of metal. I sensed my surroundings -for us socks have other senses than sight- and found I was in a small space that contained a few other socks. Horror overcame me, as these were mismatched socks. It was as if a human had no legs. Socks are able to live without their partner, but are considered terribly deformed. I swallowed my disgust, and took a closer observation. They were worn and frayed, and looked as if they had once been brightly colored. Now they were sickly pale. An inquiry explained that yes, we had at one time been bright, but the stupid dryer keeps stealing our color to dye other clothing against their will. Oh, and the reason we don't just walk out and be with our match -besides the fact that we don't have legs- is because there is no way out. I just couldn't imagine a life without my match. The next part I will share with you only because socks have no sense of honor. I did the sock imitation of breaking down and crying. It was only when one of the socks came over to comfort me -and had to pry himself away because of static- that I had a brilliant idea. I voiced it, and they all agreed that is was quite brilliant. Static makes you stick to things, right? So why not pass my statickieness on to everyone else, and we can all stick and flip ourselves up the passageway. Then, when another poor sock is thrown down here, someone will keep the door from closing, and the last sock in the line will stick to the sock that falls. It's foolproof!

So, after deciding what the blockade would be, and deciding on a piece of lint that was quite old and firm (as lint goes), we began the flipping. I approached the wall of our prison (which was looking very static-resistant) and stuck myself to it. I heaved my toes over my heel, and, to my relief, stuck. The others called up to me, and I assured them that it was quite secure. One by one they followed my lead up the pitch-black tunnel. Once at the top, we waited for quite a while. At last, a bright red sock came tumbling past me. I quickly shoved the lint into the closing door, and, once again to my relief, it held nicely. My heel soared over my toes, and I was back in the dryer. I let out breath I had been holding, and realized I was not being tossed this way and that. Therefore, the dryer was done, and Pair Of Hands would be getting us out any moment. I shouted back to the other socks to leave the passageway open, and the last one to be halfway still in there. That was the most obvious clue I could think of to explain the recent events to Pair Of Hands. Apparently it was enough, because at our -yes, my match and I's- next washing, there was a new dryer. One that was far more polite than the other one about tumbling us around (though now the constant apologies do get a bit old). And, best of all, didn't eat us. All is once again peaceful and simple, like it once was and should be forever more.