Here is a sweeping blanket statement of truth: I am not a procrastinator, unless it scares me, or has something to do with laundry.
I only go to Doctor offices when I feel like I am actually dieing. And I only do laundry once I’m down to nothing but hair dying towels and my default underwear.
…I’m just gonna let that last sentence sit there for a bit, wide open, so you can have plenty of time to fill in the pause with every one-liner that I know you want to slap in there. Because I care about you, is why I give you these opportunities of joy. Remember that later, people…at Christmas and on my Birthday (for instance.)
***Later***
…So the deal is: for the past…I dunno…seven or eight years, I haven’t lived in an apartment with its own washer and dryer. Even though EVERY TIME I moved out of one place that didn’t provide those things, I swore up, down, and sideways…with booming voice and grand hand gestures, that I would: “…NEVER LIVE IN ANOTHER APARTMENT WITHOUT A DISHWASHER OR LAUNDRY CLOSET OF ITS OWN, SO HELP ME GOD!”
…And about a week later I’d be signing a lease without one or the other…except for my current place, where I’ve lived for five years now, which provides neither.
Basically I was wooed by facial esthetics, like a giant whore, and didn’t give a shit about what was on the “inside.” And this is what materialistic sunsabitches get, my friends…they get beauty with limited actual “functionality.”
…Anyway, this is all to show that the procrastination in the “laundry” instance, is not entirely my fault. Not having my own facility makes it more difficult, because I keep odd hours with two jobs and don’t actually feel like standing in the toxic orange, badly lit, storefront laundrymat at 2 A.M. with some creepy toothless dude sitting one chair over from me, waiting til I’m done pairing up all my socks, before he rapes and kills me, then stuffs my body into the turbo spinner where people clean all their sleeping bags and comforters.
…So I opt out of that.
…But then, I can’t exactly use the basement laundry room connected to our building either, cuz there are apartments just next door and we have cleaning curfew rules. And only three washers for the entire complex to share. Also, I never have quarters. And (I find) in a world where people depend on mass amounts of them for things like parking, and video games at pizza restaurants, and laundry…that people who HAVE all the quarters never want to SHARE them with you, and it becomes like a scavenger hunt, just to get enough out of the gas station, the grocery store, and the mini mart on the way home…to do one and a half fucking loads. And when I finally actually get around to doing laundry, I’m lookin’ at five loads minimum. How the hell does that even help me at all?
…So that’s out.
…Which leaves my Mom’s house.
….Yes. At 32 years of age, I am still doing laundry at my Mother’s.
I spend half an hour separating all my colors out across my entire front hallway, then pack them up in several giant IKEA bags, grab the soap and a book, and motor over to Ma’s, where I will spend (I kid you not) my ENTIRE day, just doing laundry. (And scavenging her food cupboards, like a High School babysitter.)
….Which means that I have to pick a total day off (from work AND theatre) in order to accomplish all this. And those days come roughly once per month, on average. And when they do, the last thing I wanna do is my fucking LAUNDRY.
…The long-story anecdote of which, I’ll now end by stating: Today is a day off. Entirely.
And I am not doing laundry.
…I’m going to play with “M” and “K.L.,” instead.
…So my default, uncomfortable-but-still-technically-functional-once-upon-a-time-bad-idea-buy-mostly-on-a-joke underwear are just gonna have to deal with it.
The end.
~D
