I had to do my laundry tonight or call in sick tomorrow. There was no other option.

So it’s bad enough that I have to lug downstairs three weeks of dirty laundry and miss part of Gossip Girl. It’s bad enough I am genuinely miffed about missing delicate plot lines of Gossip Girl, because there is nothing going on my New York life but the voyeuristic satisfaction of watching fictional girls living fantastic New York lives. It’s bad enough the seasons have officially changed, I am officially alone and hinging on lonely. It’s bad enough that in my men’s sweatpants and Cubs shirt I am essentially admitting to my building I am gross, filthy, and lame.

No, you see, it wasn’t bad enough. As I chucked jeans and tunics into the washing machine, a college-aged couple made out against the wall of driers, pawing each other and giggling.

I might be gross, filthy, and lame. I might be pathetic and alone, too. But at least I’m classy enough not to get it on in my building’s laundry room.


Ah, fuck it. No I’m not. I would totally do it on the drier if I had the chance.


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