Rage Against the Washing Machine

Tuesday sucked balls.

I feel like I have the authority needed at this point to identify the act of sucking balls – both figuratively and literally.

Tuesday literally figuratively sucked balls. Oh yes. I just said that.

BS – remember the ridiculously cute guy in the red shirt from yesterday? – came for a burger after buying a ticket to a movie he almost ditched on. I tried to be friendly but got hit in the face with a fucking icy wind of doom.

So I took the super mature approach that night and invited him to get drunk and do laundry with me. Somewhere between taking the obvious and blatantly correct actions when someone cold shoulders you, I decided that the easy road is a way better idea and – despite my still-existent feelings of serious foreboding – that I want to date him in a more “you shouldn’t be sleeping with people. I want your dick go be mine, but I don’t actually want to use it” sort of way. ( I think most people would say they were entering into a monogamous relationship in these circumstances, but let’s be realistic here; no matter what I may want to- or actually be, I am not a liar. )

So that was a thing.

Apparently I’ll ask you when I’m good and gorram ready, thank very much.

Then there was a fucking waterbug of doom on my wall which is a great thing for your shiny new boyfriend to see like two minutes after he agrees to date your indecisive ass. It was like two inches long. No. Fucking. Joke.

And we were doing laundry – we never actually had drinks, irritatingly – and some fucking bitches put my shit – no, not shot, thanks though, phone – put my clean laundry on this dirty-ass table because they couldn’t wait literally 5 minutes for me to change it with my other washer.


They also did that. Because the machine kept saying “lid” and they apparently interpreted that as “[ beat the fucking shit – no, not shut, thanks – out of ] lid”

So that was also a thing.

The morning was alright though. We decided to fuck sleep – not “in our” and not “in the ass” like I want to fuck the sun, more in the “meh, whatever” sort of sense – and got noms from the IHOP that everyone goes to at 4am on weeknights. My pancakes were made of win, our waiter wanted my boyfriend’s girlfriend’s cock, the coloring sheet was marginally less shit – no, still not shot – than the one at the IHOP in Vaguely Dallas that we went to last time.

Then we sat in the car and watched the dawn listening to Bond. He commented on my eclectic – remember how I said that word was pretentious? – taste in music and then we kissed in the magical pink-gold light of a newly born sun.

So that was alright.

We also had yoghurt from Yoghurt Story or somewhere. Gotta love teh pr0nz.


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