my mom says i used to do this all the time
(by this i mean walk around barefoot with a laundry basket on my head)
i guess i talked to myself under the basket, because i liked the way my voice bounced off the walls. probably felt like i was in a theatre, addressing my many minions, sending them off to do my evil bidding. or maybe i just didn’t have anyone else to talk to. or maybe i pretended i was in a canyon; i do love echoes.
so here i am, followed by either a family dog, a stray, or a fluffy footstool.
i’m sitting here at the dreaded Laundromat, not certain what i should write. it’s hot. and slightly humid. and very hummy. the WiFi here is down, so i can’t play with my superpoke pet. it stinks, here, the washers smelling like old moldy pants and sour batches of grapes. i hate laundry day.
not that i hate doing laundry, because i rather enjoy the task itself. as a kid i did my own laundry, and remember carefully measuring the detergent into the washer. i’m one of those people that has to fill the washer halfway up with water, add detergent, and stir gently, not shake, to mix all the liquids together properly, like i’m making a secret martini for James Bond.
but some days it’s just too much. too many people at the matt, too much folding, too many quarters to stick in slots that aren’t NEARLY as fun as the ones at the casino.
some days, i think i should just be a nudist.