Airing my dirty laundry

When I was pretty young my mom forced me to learn how to do laundry. She showed me all of the meticulous steps for each color and fabric and the proper ratio of detergent to softener. There was a lot of shit to remember.

Since then it’s just been a giant pain in my ass figuring out the least irritating way to get my clothes clean.

Sending it out? Expensive.

Laundromat? Never have enough quarters.

Luckily (and I use the word luckily loosely here) I’m living in the guest bedroom of my cousin’s house so I have a washer and dryer at my disposal. It’s fucking terrific.

Though my current strategy is to say a Hail Mary and throw all of my shit in together, I find it fairly therapeutic.

Shrink a sweater? Yep, that’s me.

Fuck up new jeans? Absolutely!

Put a little too much bleach in? Classic!

I’m in control of my laundry and loving it — even the mistakes. Good metaphor for life, or something.