There comes a time in the life of a certain kind of man when he realizes that he will never see his dreams come true. They had seemed like such realistic dreams: To watch more episodes of The Office. To learn how to pronounce 'Zooey Deschanel'. To own more than 10 pairs of matching socks. To read a choose-your-own-adventure book.
Though now that he listed them in his mind, he wondered if he never pursued them because they were such mind-numbingly boring goals. Why would you ever take a few minutes out of your life to accomplish them? Especially if afterwards all you would have left is a sheet with lines and checks next to them and some pretty mundane achievements. Like that 3 months he spent visiting every country in Europe, or that novel he wrote, self-published, and then got a huge check for the movie rights, or his lovely wife, 3 beautiful children, and 6 terrific grandkids.
Maybe he should have tried something else in life. But it was too late now he thought just before his car finally landed in the ravine and the subsequent explosion burned him beyond all recognition.
Epilogue (pronounced A-pillow-gew)
His lovely wife wiped tears from her eyes as she went through his sock drawer, why had that man never had any matching socks? Every month she would buy him a pack of socks and somehow within days there would be no match.