This past Friday, the most dire tragedy in the life of a young bright college student came to fruition—that’s right, it was laundry day. Sadly the 57 pairs of identical black socks I brought from home did not absolve me from this soul crushing experience. The arduous process began sharply at dawn to avoid everyone in the dorm as always. I quickly snuck down to the brilliantly engineered machines that somehow manage to keep your clothes at the perfect, confusing amount of wetness. While I was getting ready to begrudgingly receive yet another damp set of clothes, it hit me; today was daylight savings which can only mean one thing: the clothes have to dry today.
I diligently checked the machine every 30 minutes; watching the hypnotic…I mean super boring turns of the machine and the marvelous…ly idiotic mechanisms that soiled my kaleidoscope of clothes each time. However when that clock hit 2 and the glorious switch to 3 happened, that change did not seem to want to extend itself to anything but the clock.
But as I was griping about my clothes and the daylight savings disappointment, I had an epiphany; my time in Sheldon basement was, might I say, transformative? Did I enjoy watching those clothes move in that circular motion because it served as a distraction from the gaping pit of fear in my stomach? No, it can’t be. Was I the one making the clothes wet? As I sat there watching the impatient floor idiot take out my clothes from the dryer I realized the laundry wasn’t the product of a perm press spin cycle or the work of a mere machine and buttons, the laundry was in me all along; I was the laundry.
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