My sock(s) issue

The only words the CEO of our company spoke to me today were "You look tired", as he walked past me in the hall. Astounded, I came across M at the fax machine who had overheard the one-sided exchange and he nodded, "Nice". I sputtered, "He- I... he... did you? He just..." and then I went back to my office to hide my bagged eyes from the general public. I was tired, but no one needed to point it out. What's next? "Hey, you look a little fat in the ass"? Or maybe, "You kind of went to pot after the marathon, eh?". My all time favourite was when he caught me en route to the washroom and asked me how the "man hunting" was going. I should tell him what I do them once I "catch" them: he'll never ask me another personal question again.
Came home. Worked out. Did a bunch of little errands. I wandered around my apartment drinking a beer in my sweatpants, occasionally scratching myself while admiring my large television. I've become a man. I'm not going to return your phone calls. I'm going to pee with the seat up. Okay, I'm not. And I'm contemplating shaving my legs. So. Arduous. And for what?
But this was a blog about socks. So here's the kicker: socks are going missing. And I have in suite laundry! How does this happen? It's like a goddamn Seinfeld episode over here. I'm unloading my dryer and I get one sock. Where is the other sock? It's not like it could have been mixed in with someone else's laundry. When my panties start to go missing, I swear to god...
That's really about it. Spoke to Michael's sister for half an hour. She sent me birthday/housewarming/Christmas gifts. His family loves me. What's not to love? I'm lovable. I'm everyone's favourite sockless wonder.
Seriously. Where the hell is it?