Only I could take a job such as laundering a sleeping bag and make it a full day's task. If you recall, I urinated into my friend JNAU's borrowed sleeping bag on the last day of our camping trip. I offered to replace the bag, but it's part of a matching set that she likes. There's not enough room in my washing machine for a sleeping bag, so I took it to the laundromat up the street.
Laundromats, as I recall from television and movies, are typically filled with single women, college girls, girls in their underwear because they're washing the clothes in which they were in. Folding tables are not for folding clothes but rather for anonymous sexual encounters.
The reality is me standing in front of a huge seventies styled washing machine with a garbage bag full of urine soaked sleeping bag. I'm all alone, which is good because I don't want anyone seeing me with a look of confusion on my face while trying to do a load of laundry. I know how to use my washing machine at home, but this is bewildering. I read the instructions:
Step 1: Look inside washing machine to ensure no children, pets, or foreign objects are inside.
No shit? My rule for warnings is that for a warning to exist someone had to make the mistake once. It had to happen at a laundromat. It had to be done by a lady with five kids with rollers in her hair and a fucking Virginia Slim in between her remaining teeth. My anticipated porno experience quickly became a white trash hell.
$5.00 to wash the sleeping bag. I'll be damned if I am going to return a sleeping bag in which I pissed to someone after washing it only once. Total cost was about $13.00 and half a day.
PUBLIC APOLOGY: to Marty for flaking on tennis today.
In order to save this website I've invited JNAU, a fellow writer, to submit postings on this blog. I hope she accepts because anger isn't really all that sexy and It's all that drives me at the moment. My diet consists of Red Bull, Vodka, and anger. Good stuff.
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