I am living in an apartment without its own in-unit washer/dryer for the first time since the dorms. It's awful. I am a spoiled laundry brat and living without that luxury . . . I feel like I may as well be scrubbing my clothes against an 1800's washboard and a metal bucket and using a lump of soap that I crudely made myself by lumping together lye and human fat. Or something. Whatever. I've seen "Fight Club" more than a few times, so I consider myself to be an expert on homemade soap. The point is - I hate the laundry room in my apartment building.
The first time I used it, I managed to choose the two dryers that are out of order. Out of the eight dryers, I needed two and I was drawn to the only ones out of order. They do not have a sign posted announcing they're out of order, they just are. So I lost two dollars right there. The other thing is that the place closes at 10pm. My time to use the laundry room is very limited, so I have to be extremely diligent in getting my ass down there to switch out my clothes. Otherwise they will be held prisoner by the laundry room for the night. And yet another thing: cockroaches. So there you are. You now have a good idea of what the laundry room is like. Except that I will now give you an even better idea. It will also give you a really good idea of what my apartment building is like in general, in addition to that gun/no-gun incident.
Sunday night I absolutely had to wash my jeans. I had no choice in the matter. It was getting to the point where to wear them even one more time would be to choose a different life for myself, a life wherein I am avoided and shunned by society. And no, I don't have another pair I could have worn. I don't know where the rest of you are getting these endless pairs of jeans you seem to have the ability to rotate between, but frankly I don't have the money to buy myself even one additional pair of jeans unless I am forced to by the holes that are slowly but surely appearing, in which case I then have to retire the first pair and then I'm right back where I started. I want to be rich if only for the many pairs of jeans I would own.
So it's 9pm and I'm rushing down to the laundry room with a load of blues. Then it's 9:30pm and I'm rushing down to switch the blues to the dryer. Then it's 10:02pm and I'm frantically racing down the stairs, praying that Rebecca, the manager, hasn't locked the room yet. She hasn't, thankfully, so even though my clothes aren't completely dry, I'm loading them into my arms. And then I hear a crunching sound. A plastic crunching sound in my clothes. And I was like, well that's strange, I checked all my pockets. And then I see a small plastic baggie mixed in with my underwear. And I know that it isn't mine. So immediately, I wondered what was in it. And I'll tell you what was in it: marijuana.
Pot was in it. There was pot in my underwear! Hah!