Well, there’s a lot of laundry on the bedroom floor. I can’t tell what’s clean and what isn’t, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sniff it all. I hope my laundering is not interrupted by drunk Cheryl from upstairs again. Cheryl is all “I have to do one load of laundry by 4 pm!” And I’m all “You should have planned ahead, fuck me for doing laundry on a random Thursday afternoon.” And she’s all “no, really,” and to end the conversation before she tells me why 4 pm is so important, I just take my laundry out. Then when hers is midway through the wash cycle, I go down and unplug the machine. I am kidding about that last part. I think.

There is an obese family that lives downstairs, and they do so much damn laundry. I had to take some of their stuff out of the dryer the other day, and I realized why they are constantly in the laundry room. Because each load only holds two pairs of supersized pants and a sweatshirt. Think of that wasted water. Sea otters could be cavorting in that. They also produce an amazing amount of trash, what with eating an entire box of Honey Smacks each at every meal. Or so it seems as I stare out my window with binoculars. OK, I sit out on the deck and openly stare.

I am Gladys Kravitz rolled into Dr. Phil rolled into a watery grave if I don’t watch my mouth. I can’t wait to purge the church of all the fornicators.