So sometimes my stoop is like the party stoop where the locals get loud and get high. Well I usually just try to get into my apartment undetected because I don’t wanna make waves.
So tonight, me and the boy were walking to a restaurant around the block so we obviously had to walk down the party stoop. We made it mostly unscathed until this girl with swirly hair was all, “hi!”
And I, naively, took the bait and said, “hi.”
To which she responded, “she speaks.”
Like they’re all in on me being some snooty broad that is too good to talk to them. So I just alpha-stared her down, but the point is really that I know this bitch is gonna be a problem and god I just wanted a nice chicken dinner what the hell?
Body, we’ve been on this earth for 23 years. Booboo, THE TREES ARE NOT ATTACKING YOU.
My allergies are killer too anymore. What the goddamn hell?
After all this time, you’d think that I’d have given up my rigid devotion to a faulty, unreliable, washing machine, but I really just can’t quit you. I have dumped countless gallons of cleaning liquids into your open mouth praying that just this once you’ll not be “out of order” or that you’ll not “leak unnecessarily all over the laundromat.”
*Exhibit A: You publicly embarrassing me and making me question my commitment to our relationship.
I guess we should start with where my obsession began: It was an extremely hot June weekday evening and I had been in NYC long enough to foresee my underwear dwindling like the countdown on New Year’s Eve. It was probably the only thing that would simultaneously make Dick Clark excited and me uneasy. While I had become vaguely familiar with the laundromat around the corner from my walk-up, I had also become acutely aware that The City that Never Sleeps does, however, take short naps. That laundromat closed a full hour prior to my return from work, and so I opted to let Google Maps guide me to the nearest 24-hour deal.
I entered, with nothing but high hopes and my scary homeless rolling cart overflowing with the majority of my wardrobe. All of the machines were taken except for you, lucky 31. I call you lucky because 31 is the day of my birth, and, well really that’s it.
What started out as minor inconvenience (RE: me kicking you in the face so that my deposit would be honored via your cooperation), came to a head when you decided to eat my supplies without giving my clothing so much as a single rotation in your whirlpool. I was placed on the list of people who would be credited a free load in any number of more reliable machines.
How do I quit you? We see each other bi-weekly and try as I might, I cannot resist the urge to play Russian Roulette with you, knowing that I will undoubtedly be the loser since, again, you’re a pile of metallic disappointment that cannot feel pain.
Please return the love and adoration I feel so desperately for you, and also, point me in the direction of a dryer that can wring out my clothes in less than an hour.