Ahem. So I was forced into doing my laundry. Everything was going swimmingly, the machine ate my five quarters, I put in detergent, and when I opened it up everything seemed damp. I'm trustng that damp means clean. Unless the machine just likes screwing with people. Then it's probably laughing its metallic butt off at us all as I type.
The problem arose when I put my clothes in the drier. It gobbled up another five quarters and turned on, giving me false hopes that it would actually do what I wanted. But apparently I'm a total fail at doing womanly tasks such as laundry and forgot to clean the lint thingy. So... it didn't dry my clothes. Just imagine for a moment, getting all excited over finally having clean clothes to put away into the proper drawers. Then, you open the door to the drier, happy in your ignorance. Suddenly that naiivety is squashed, because you are faced with a mound of damp, sketchily washed clothes that smell oddly of wonton soup.
I faced a moment of pure depression in that instant. There was a flash of red in front of my eyes, and I was filled with an intense desire to cause physical pain to this drier machine. I had to teach it a lesson. Just for a second I allowed myself the pleasure of imagining the scene: my magically athletic form beating the shit out of this giant block of pure ugly metal with a hammer, much like one seen in the Super Smash bros game. You know... the one that makes your character go all apeshit and kick ass. I'd beat it into scraps all the while screaming, "WHY YOU NO DRY CLOTHES, DRIER? I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU."
Anyway. Now my room has my undergarments, socks, shirts, and shorts lying around collecting wrinkles and stiffening up. Everything is going to be all itchy and uncomfortable, not to mention I can't use my desk... or chair. My stuff covers everything.
I am not often filled with a sense of self pity. Sure there are moments, but aside from the major catastrophes in my life I'd give anything to change, I'm quite content with the life I've been given. But it's moments like these, when I'm crouching uncomfortably and typing a blog post that is bound to get roughly two readers, surrounded by damp clothes that smell like wonton soup and probably aren't even clean... that I am filled with darkness. Dear drier, why do you dampen my clothes, my life, and my heart?