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2004-03-24 12:50 a.m.
Note: I was drunk when I wrote this long-hand the other night. Not slobbering, can't-stand-on-my-own-two-feet drunk, just buzzed enough to know that I am the best looking guy around, as well as the toughest. So please keep that in mind as you read this, as I might -at any given time- be exagerrating/lying/deluded. Today was Laundry Day. I hate Laundry Day. It's not that laundry takes much effort, it is simply that the laundry room is right beside the computer room. I don't know how many people realize this, but my computer has a gravitational pull to rival that of black holes. If I wander within 20 feet of it, it not only sucks me in, but warps the passage of time itself. For instance: I go downstairs to put a load in the washer, and transfer a load from the washer to the dryer. Since I'm downstairs, I might as well check my email. And since I am online, I should log on to MSN and see who is online. I better play a few (30), games of freecell while I have the computer on. The whole process should take somewhere in the neighbourhood of a half an hour. But no. Somehow my computer has disrupted the time-space continuum, and I've managed to waste 2 1/2 hours. I don't know how this happens. Maybe it's just one real bad-ass computer virus. But this is all incidental. The real reason I wanted to put pen to paper, and ultimately finger to keyboard, was to tell you a story that might tell you a little bit about the kind of person I am. You see, I was folding my laundry (quite a normal exercise for us non-college-dorm inhabitants). I'm folding, folding, folding, when I get to the last item to be folded. Aha! I am victorious, in possession of a FULL nine days of underwear before I have to start the ritual all over again. But wait! All is not kosher. I have detected a catastrophe. Something has made itself quite conspicuous to me by it's absence... WHERE IS THE FUCKING DRYER SHEET? Oh evil most foul! The laundry gods have forsaken me yet again. For sometime this week,(undoubtedly in the presence of a gorgeous, single young woman), I am going to look like an utter tit. I'll be walking along, scratching a persistent itch, when I'll finally look down to inspect the source of my discomfort. This is the point where I will notice the dryer sheet, hanging from my waist, or my ankle, or sticking up from the back of my shirt. It always happens like that. You never notice before you leave the house, always after a speech in front of the U.N., or during your inauguration speech to the House of Lords, or at precisely the moment following your long awaited, and painfully nerve-racking introduction to a womanyou have held a secret desire for many months, and just now dug deep into your reserves of courage to actually speak to her. No wonder I'm single. Damn laundry gods. I hate you. And give me back my sock!!!
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