I fucking hate doing laundry.
It's a 20-25 minute walk from my apartment to the nearest laundromat. While I could drive, these legs of granite aren't going to chisel themselves. I load my duffle bag with clothes and snacks, walk in a circle five times before exiting my door (I have OCD), then lock/unlock my door eight times (OCD again; it's not quirky, it's miserable) and head about my way.
As I near the laundromat I notice a motley crew of foul mouthed children playing a rather raucous game of craps in the parking lot. Recognizing the smallest child, and hoping to avoid conflict, I quietly shuffle by whilst avoiding eye contact.
"Hey Coats!" The smallest child calls to me. He flicks his cigarette and approaches menacingly. "Ya' got a lotta fuckin' nerve, ya' know that?"
"Knuckles, please, I just need a little more time," I plead. He flips out his butterfly knife and grabs me by the collar.
"Ya' got one week, ya' hear me? One fuckin' week, then I gut ya' like the fuckin' pig ya' are. Understand, friend?"
"Yes sir, thank you sir." He balls up his fist and punches me in the stomach, which elicits laughter from his fellow eight year olds. I sort of have a gambling problem, and sort of owe people money.
Dragging myself into the laundromat I'm greeted by grainy Ranchera music and babies running around in diapers. The mounted television is playing one of those Mexican game shows that has some clowns, some hot women, and some mustaches. The scene causes either nostalgia or indigestion to briefly consume my being, as my local laundromat is the closest I will come to visiting El Paso, my home, for the foreseeable future.
As I'm loading my clothes into the nearest washer I feel a tiny foot repeatedly kicking my leg. A small, ice cream stained toddler stands behind me, his face in perpetual I'm-about-to-sneeze-I'm-about-to-sneeze-no-wait-I'm-good mode. His mother quickly runs up and grabs him by the hand, apologizing. He looks up at me, with his stupid three year old eyes, turns absent-mindedly to his left, then does the most impressively awkward sprint I have ever, or will ever, see in my life. Like a gazelle missing one leg, with its remaining legs on fire. Ambivalent as to what to do in such a situation, I turn to the mother and say "Cute kid."
It's a 20-25 minute walk from my apartment to the nearest laundromat. While I could drive, these legs of granite aren't going to chisel themselves. I load my duffle bag with clothes and snacks, walk in a circle five times before exiting my door (I have OCD), then lock/unlock my door eight times (OCD again; it's not quirky, it's miserable) and head about my way.
As I near the laundromat I notice a motley crew of foul mouthed children playing a rather raucous game of craps in the parking lot. Recognizing the smallest child, and hoping to avoid conflict, I quietly shuffle by whilst avoiding eye contact.
"Hey Coats!" The smallest child calls to me. He flicks his cigarette and approaches menacingly. "Ya' got a lotta fuckin' nerve, ya' know that?"
"Knuckles, please, I just need a little more time," I plead. He flips out his butterfly knife and grabs me by the collar.
"Ya' got one week, ya' hear me? One fuckin' week, then I gut ya' like the fuckin' pig ya' are. Understand, friend?"
"Yes sir, thank you sir." He balls up his fist and punches me in the stomach, which elicits laughter from his fellow eight year olds. I sort of have a gambling problem, and sort of owe people money.
Dragging myself into the laundromat I'm greeted by grainy Ranchera music and babies running around in diapers. The mounted television is playing one of those Mexican game shows that has some clowns, some hot women, and some mustaches. The scene causes either nostalgia or indigestion to briefly consume my being, as my local laundromat is the closest I will come to visiting El Paso, my home, for the foreseeable future.
As I'm loading my clothes into the nearest washer I feel a tiny foot repeatedly kicking my leg. A small, ice cream stained toddler stands behind me, his face in perpetual I'm-about-to-sneeze-I'm-about-to-sneeze-no-wait-I'm-good mode. His mother quickly runs up and grabs him by the hand, apologizing. He looks up at me, with his stupid three year old eyes, turns absent-mindedly to his left, then does the most impressively awkward sprint I have ever, or will ever, see in my life. Like a gazelle missing one leg, with its remaining legs on fire. Ambivalent as to what to do in such a situation, I turn to the mother and say "Cute kid."
"Oh, thank you," she smiles politely. "He's not mine." Her smile slowly dissipates. "Not yet." She is staring off into the distance. "Soon. Soon he will be." Her eyes are the eyes of one who has seen much sorrow, of one who will see much more. "Mine. Forever."
Focusing on the task at hand I put my quarters in the washing machine. Not one to disappoint, the washing machine eats my quarters. The machine reads ERROR: DESPAIR. Using my Ring of Summoning (+2 Wisdom, +15 Mana) I call forth Quarter Wizard Lady the Gray.
She stops sweeping the floors and comes to my aid. "Que paso? It eat you quarters?"
Focusing on the task at hand I put my quarters in the washing machine. Not one to disappoint, the washing machine eats my quarters. The machine reads ERROR: DESPAIR. Using my Ring of Summoning (+2 Wisdom, +15 Mana) I call forth Quarter Wizard Lady the Gray.
She stops sweeping the floors and comes to my aid. "Que paso? It eat you quarters?"
"Your grace, this washing machine has broken the Pact of Six and consumed my quarters without having first laundered my laundry. I beg your assistance in retribution, o' Great Wizard."
"Oh, este no work. No use it." Quarter Wizard Lady's sagacity never fails to impress me. She hands me six quarters. "Different one."
"You humble me with your assistance, Quarter Wizard Lady. A thousand pardons for having disturbed you from your sweeping." She grunts and waddles off to sweep floors that need sweeping.
Many moons later I transfer my clothes from a washing machine to a dryer. I briefly contemplate what would happen if one put a washing machine into a dryer, then quickly shake such juvenile thoughts from my head. Obviously it would make a Transformer®.
"Oh, este no work. No use it." Quarter Wizard Lady's sagacity never fails to impress me. She hands me six quarters. "Different one."
"You humble me with your assistance, Quarter Wizard Lady. A thousand pardons for having disturbed you from your sweeping." She grunts and waddles off to sweep floors that need sweeping.
Many moons later I transfer my clothes from a washing machine to a dryer. I briefly contemplate what would happen if one put a washing machine into a dryer, then quickly shake such juvenile thoughts from my head. Obviously it would make a Transformer®.
I notice that an older gentleman is removing my laundry from the dryer. I reach for my wallet to flip a silver dollar for his troubles, then I realize he is stealing my clothes. I flare my lats to look hella jacked and more intimidating, then ask him what he is doing.
"Him what he is doing?" My brain and mouth don't always see eye to eye.
"What?"
"What are you doing?"
"Getting my laundry."
"That's my laundry."
"Whaaaaaaat?"
"Do you work for UNT?"
"Maybe, maybe not. What's it to you?"
"Because those are UNT shirts I wear for work."
"Oh, it looks like you're right. These are clearly shirts for pussies."
"There's no need for name calling."
"There's also no need for you to have such colorful underwear."
"There's no need for name calling."
"There's also no need for you to have such colorful underwear."
"Just drop the clothes, dude."
"You must say that alot." He drops the clothes, then he drops the mic.
I fucking hate doing laundry.
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