Dear Future Me,
This is a post about my relationship with my washing machine.
Before I get into that, though, just an update: I am still pretty sick. Although I’ve gotten through that awful full-body disgusting-ness that began this journey, all of my illness is now focused into a little cone of hate, namely my oesophagus. Not only am I coughing more now, my throat is so sore that the act of swallowing is painful enough to wake me up out of a sound sleep. Once awake, I lay in bed barking like a trained seal until I work up the energy to get a cough drop.
Actually, “trained” seal is a bit of a misnomer, as I am not really going to do anything for you. I am like one of those jerk seals at the zoo that is just gonna eat fish and not do tricks and lounge in the sun like a gangstah. I’m going to take your money and disappoint your children, suckers! Sometimes my metaphors are altogether too accurate.
Anyway, Future Me, the point: my washing machine. It was sent from above or below or sideways to test my sanity. I don’t know what world religions are popular in your time, but whether this thing comes from heaven or hell or middle earth, it is out to get me. Maybe God, maybe Satan, maybe the six-eyed purple wallaby wants to test me for some reason; all I know is that this machine was given to me for a purpose, possibly to drive me into a jacket with no sleeves and a soft room without furniture.
Let me paint you a picture, if I may: this evening I was doing laundry. Whilst the machine was running, I was sitting in my office, when I swear I heard my ringtone. I stood up and walked all around the house trying to find my cellphone, eventually returning to the office where I noticed that it had been sitting right beside me the whole time. It wasn’t my ringtone I was hearing – it was the washing machine. Alright, Wallaby, you’ve made your point: I am officially losing my shit. Why is the washing machine singing too me?!?
(On a totally unrelated note, here is some cosmogony for the Wallaby:
A long time ago Wallaby lived by herself in a huge empty cosmos. Everything was dark and silent and she was very lonely. She had seven large eyes but without a universe it was as though she was blind. One day, when Wallaby could not stand the loneliness anymore, she drew from her pouch a bright yellow egg. The egg hatched, and out of the egg came everything: man and animals, plants and stars, galaxies and tiny micro-organisms. The brightness of existence was so intense that her seventh eye was blinded, and that is why there is evil in the world: because Wallaby can only watch man for six out of seven days for any given life. Despite her loss, Wallaby is very happy with the Universe and loves her creation very much. The end.)
Here’s another thing: I don’t know if it’s my washing machine or the dryer, but one of the two is randomly burning my towels. They come out with what look like blood stains, only I’m pretty sure I don’t randomly bleed that much onto towels. Sure, I get my blood-rights during the magical moon-time like every other breeding-age female, but I think I’ve found a better solution than simply shoving a towel up in there and hoping for the best. So, seriously: what is up with my towels?
Also, my washing machine is designed so poorly, it’s actually funny. The hose that feeds water into the machine is sitting precariously in a tube attached to the machine, rather than being glued or secured in place in any way. This means that is the machine moves while it is running, the water hose flops out like an unsatisfying sexual encounter and starts flooding my kitchen floor. For real.
Finally, my washing machine is really noisy and really small, so I can only do tiny, obnoxiously loud loads, and it’s just sad, you know? Like I don’t have enough aggravations in my life, now I have to worry about this psychologically unstable washer and the effects it’s having on my state of mind.
Future me, I know this probably seems trite (or downright crazy) and I’m sure you’ve gotten a new washing machine by now, but I just want you to remember where you came from. Remember, and mourn for the childhood you lost.
To your laundry and mental health,