The Language of Laundry, aka The Dance of Despair

Mundaneness of all mundanities (I have no clue whether either of those are actual words NOR DO I CARE), I decided to suck it up and do some laundry yesterday, which does not happen often. So around 1 in the afternoon, I dragged my laundry bag down to the laundry-room of the back house. There were loads of laundry in both the washer and dryer, so I figured I'd just leave my big mound of clothes there in a basket to show that I am next in line, and I headed back to my apartment to patiently wait until they were done with their loads to start my own.

1:45, I go back, and THEY'VE STARTED ANOTHER LOAD, despite my shit sitting there.

Fine. Folks have multiple loads to do--they got started already and just wanted to finish it up. I understand.

3:00, AND THERE'S STILL MORE (AND NEW) LAUNDRY IN THE MACHINES!

Now, I am an impatient fucker. I acknowledge that fact. People should bow down to my schedule and stay the hell outta my way. It makes me cranky if they fail to do so. But I'm *trying* to take deep breaths and not toss a broken ink-pen in with their load, seeing as I'M CLEARLY WAITING AND HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR A WHILE.

I continue to breathe deep and just decide I'll wait until 5:30 to return and hopefully they'll be all done by then.

5:30 I return, and their laundry is sitting in both the washer and dryer doing absolutely nothing. 6:30 I return and their laundry is sitting in the washer and dryer doing absolutely nothing. 7:30, and I'm writing a nasty fucking note out on a piece of paper telling them that they're not the only goddamn people who need to wash clothes and maybe they should at least KEEP AN EYE ON WHEN THEIR LAUNDRY IS GONNA BE DONE so that it's not just sitting there, taking up space, when other people could be using the machines.

7:31, I go to leave the note, but Laundry Asshole is apparently down there fiddling with their laundry. So I leave before entering the basement as to avoid confrontation and give them 15 minutes to get the fucking hell out.

7:45, I return and they have a load in the dryer but ALLELUJAH PRAISE JESUS the washer is empty. So I run back to the house and nab a load of towels and sheets to toss in, along with a small rug that needed a good washing. There is no way in hell I'm gonna be able to do more than one load tonight, given the snail's-pace of the dryer, so I figure I'll get the big shit done with.

8:30, my timer goes off, so I go to check and see if they're done with the dryer so I can transfer my clothes. The dryer is still going and there are a pile of someone else's clothes angrily sitting ON TOP OF the washing machine that my clothes have just finished swishing around in. Had they written FUCK YOU in their own shit on the machine, the message wouldn't have been any clearer.

Mind you, THEY HAD TRANSFERRED THEIR WET CLOTHES TO THE DRYER AND LEFT THE WASHER EMPTY--the unspoken rule of laundry (everyone knows this) is when you TRANSFER your wet stuff, you THROW IN ANOTHER LOAD TO WASH if you're planning on washing it. You don't sit around and pick your ass and let your wet shit joyfully dry while you eat your own feces and pick your pimples and THEN decide to throw another load of laundry into the wash. Needless to say, I am pissed by this unnecessary message, especially since they've been monopolizing the machines for EIGHT F-ING HOURS at this point. Who in god's name does laundry for EIGHT GODDAMN HOURS? I mean, seriously.

9:00, I check back and the dryer is still going, and I am fed up, so I remove all my wet sheets and towels from the dryer to carry back to my house and let air dry. I jam the angry clothes half onto the dusty-ass top of the dryer and half on the top of the washer, smirking when I notice that a chunk of some fabric of some clothing is half-jammed under the lid. Fuck me? FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER. Yeah, that's what that laundry's saying.

11:00, I grab one of my half-dry towels as I get out of the shower and rub my face with it, only to realize that I am smearing massive quantities of cat-hair all over my skin. Had I picked up Zooey or Franny and just rubbed them all over my face, the effect wouldn't've been much different. Apparently the cat-hair-laden rug that I washed has gotten hair all over the remainder of my towels which will need to be rewashed. As I stand upstairs, toweling myself off with my only dry towel (which happens to be a hand-towel, of course) I grin evilly, finding pleasure in the fact that Laundry Asshole's final load is probably completely coated with cat hair.

I have the last laugh, and it sounds much like this: Ha ha ha ha ha.

Fuck me, Laundry Asshole? Fuck you.

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