Dear Washing Machine,
You ate one of my socks. This is annoying. If you had to eat a sock could you not have picked an old, threadbare one filled with holes? Did it have to be a new only-worn-once black knee-high sock that was incredibly warm and comfortable? You must have eaten it, it's not in the lounge, it's not on the laundry floor, it's not on the ground in the back-yard, I didn't hang it on the line. It has dissappeared.
You ate it.
I am not talking to you.
No love,