If a cow ever got the chance...

Yet another reason why my apartment is two hundred dollars cheaper than apartments of its ilk in this neighborhood (hell, on this block): LAUNDRY! There is none! How I failed to take this into account, I do not know. The nearest laundromat is a quarter-mile away. Since I have no car and have not yet purchased one of those dumb two-wheeled carts that old people have, this means that once or twice a week I can be found hobbling down the street, blue-and-white-striped freshman-year laundry bag slung over my shoulder. (Okay, pretty much dragging on the ground, since it weighs like 40 pounds by the time I get around to doing laundry.) Methinks I look like an idiot. Oh well.

So I get my bag of filth into the laundromat last night and start looking around for washers. This is more problematic than you'd think. The first washer is covered with sticky, half-dissolved bleach crystals. The second washer contains some sort of small curved object, which I reach for. It's a red acrylic press-on nail. The third washer contains five more of them (making me wonder where the other four are). The last washer is clean and the laundering is uneventful until the dryer catches on fire. I think I'll start going to the other laundromat.

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