Socked

Someone is sneaking into my place and depositing socks in my sock drawers. I use the plural because up until recently I needed two full drawers to hold my socks. Then I had a long talk with myself. Actually it was a short talk--I get bored with myself during long talks. I decided to be pro-active and eliminate the problem  with a Sock Decluttering Assault.
I was merciless. Anything that looked like it might be on the verge of a hole got tossed. All those mismatched couples, goodbye. Dozens with the tops scissored to give my lower extremities more circulation unceremoniously dumped into a baggie. White, brown, blue, gray, black, wool, silk, cotton, it mattered not how old, how attractive, how sturdy. These were socks I knew I'd never wear again, replaced by diabetic ones with little elastic to block blood flow.
Yes, it was traumatic. Having sufficient back up socks was almost as important as back up underwear. But one reaches a point in one's life where choices have to be made. My ties are looking at me suspiciously and they should. When do I ever wear ties? I assumed by now I'd need formal wear for events where I receive writing awards. Strangely, that hasn't happened, so several of my suits and perhaps 80% of my ties may be headed for Goodwill.
None of this explains how I wound up with socks I don't remember buying. What if the same person is also breaking in and leaving cuff links and tie clips? I know this: if I come across a nose ring in my spare change drawer I'm calling in detectives.