Doing laundry sucks worse than your mother's X chromosomes.

As you may have gleamed from the title, I have neither clean underwear nor respect for you mom. Sitting here at work, I am currently wearing the last clean pair of boxers I own; these are the back-up pair for the back-up pair. Truly today is a sad day.

I think I now know how homeless people must feel when they look back at their lives, trying to figure out when it all went wrong and hoping to answer the question "how could this happen to me?" When I look back, as they so often must (as they probably don't have anything better to do, what with no homes and all) I see a slow progression in my life from clean clothes to dirty. I can remember a time when my cabinets were overflowing with a bounty of fresh textiles of all shapes, sizes, and colors; socks and shirts three drawers wide and as many deep, all manner of garment and leather wear hanging in the closet, and a seemingly endless supply of undershirts and boxers, just waiting to be worn. Those were the glory days: days without worry, when nary a second thought was given to the availability of unsoiled items, days when the idea of doing laundry was but the twinkling of a distant star, days of a building hubris, the rising action leading ultimately to the story's climax. But those days were not to last, and in this tale clean shit was not long for this world.
Continuing to think on the matters of days past, I can recall my filthy linens hamper filling at precisely the same rate at which clean drawers were being depleted, and with each passing day the prior continued to fill as the latter steadily emptied. Running ever lower on staple garments, I told myself each night before drifting off to sleep that tomorrow I must end this. I had to cut off the tributaries to this ever-deepening pool of clothing, lest it's tide swell wash over me in a wave sleeves, consuming both me and my bed in a flood of zippers and buttons. The damn was ready to break. Despite my nightly oath to trim back the vines of cotton and wool that threatened to choke the light from my floor and desk, each morning was met with procrastination and indifference, my desire to do other things time and again overriding my need to clean. The sword to my Damacles would remain hovering overhead for yet another day.
The climax of this story came today, as I was forced, for the second time in as many mornings (and not unlike the aforementioned homeless people) , to wear unmatched socks. Luckily for me and my dignity, the socks in question are both grey, and differ only in the brand logo on the side. The casual observer would hardly notice the difference, but still, the very notion is kind of shitty and not above derision. If I saw someone wearing unmatched socks I would think him or her foolish and/or a fucking idiot. I don't want to be that guy.
Anyway, now it's dénouement time, and armed with a metric ass/shit/dick/fuck load of quarters, some liquid detergent, and the knowledge that I'll never get laid with my room looking like Baghdad, I am finally ready to confront my demons and perform a Springtime Fresh Tide laundry exorcism up in this bitch.
Word
Also, I have included a picture of some dude's locker at work. Magnets are fun.

Lead-acid bullshit.

After spending the last decade or so resisting the doucheosity that is blogging, reading Rori's blog has inspired me to finally take up the pen so to speak and begin chronicling the daily sailings of the garbage scow that is life. What follows is the most interesting thing that has happened recently, but please bear in mind that interesting is a relative term and more than a little subjective.

So about a week ago as I was leaving Kroger around midnight I was confronted by someone who could only be described as a crazy bum. A literally crazy bum. Initially brushing him off I kept walking, making a more or less straight line to my car, dodging the crowd of illegals blasting Spanish rap out of their Hondas during their smoke break and trying not to step in what looked like chunder but was probably just a watermelon that had been dropped and left for dead.
Being the nice guy that I am, I felt bad about being such a complete dick. I looked back and saw that the guy was still stammering around in the same place as before, kind of listing back and forth trying to maintain something resembling an upright posture, but failing miserably to do so. This guy was clearly fucked up in the head. I could overhear him asking people for a jump, and I thought "hey, I'm nice as shit, I can at least give him a jump," so I went over and told him I'd help. At that moment his filthy dirtbag Caucasian friend showed up and pointed me to their car. His friend, an oil-smudged flannel-wearing stinky bastard, clearly the poor-man's Billy Ray Cyrus type, seemed nice enough, in that shitbag kind of way. Good people.
I popped my hood, and while I was moving my wallet, phone, coke rock, spoon, and anything else of value from my pocket to my console, Filthy McShitlife hooked up the jumper cables. When I walked around I saw that he had put all four clamps on the battery terminals, rather than using the engine block as a ground. I knew this was wrong and that he was either an idiot or a moron, but by then his car had started, so I just said 'fuck it' to myself and closed the hood. As I did so, Cletus (the white guy friend) had the audacity to ask me for gas money, and at this point I looked at him and drove away. What a worthless piece of shit.
Over the next few days my battery grew weaker and weaker, but it would gain strength when driven around for a while, so I reasoned that my alternator must be okay. Flash forward to Saturday morning when I (try to) leave work and find that my car is completely dead. Somewhere up there in heaven Anna Nicole is probably using my battery to start her car. At least in a perfect world that's what I'd like to think.
Anyway, being that it's 730 am on a Saturday and there are no buses, no taxis, and I have nobody's number (had just bought a new phone), I was fucked. I walked almost 5 miles home, thinking I would use my roommate's car to go buy a battery. He was out of town with work, so again I said 'fuck it' and I went to sleep. Adding insult to injury, I was completely out of food at home. I had jelly and an empty jar of peanut butter. Cereal and no milk. Cheese but no ham. Beer but no pretzels. Shit!! I had rice in the cabinet, but fuck a whole lot of rice boiling. Homey don't play dat (kids still say that, right? Rad). I ate a fun-sized bag of sunchips for lunch, and another for dinner, and let me assure you the name turned out to be more than a little misleading. Apparently fun doesn't mean what it used to.
That night I rode my bike to work, then had the VandyCops give me a jump the next morning, and from there I went to Wal-Mart to buy a battery. Hours later I'm back home at the pool drinking a few beers and just in general being a bad ass. Not a bad day.
This morning I get up and decide to ride my bike to the Y, but as luck would have it the motherfucker is still at work where I left it. So I ran back to work (which I have to say is a long-ass way away when you can't run for shit) then rode back home. I went to bed again. The Y, like intercourse with a girl, gainful employment, and world peace, will have to wait.