I am now aware that I am to washing what George Bush is to foreign policy. Useless and destructive. I cannot so much as pick up a carton of bleach without draining some colourful article of clothing of its soul and reducing it to its pallid infancy. It's like like that scene at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where the villain drinks from the wrong chalice and is "aged to death" (this may not be the official term) in seconds. Only with cotton-polyster hybrids.
So far my current kill ratio is as follows:
FATALITIES:
1 pillow case
SEVERE WOUNDING:
1 pillow case
1 t-shirt (this occurred during a visit to Wellcome when a carton of bleach literally flew of the shelf and collided with said item of clothing)
WALKING WOUNDED:
1 bed sheet
1 duvet cover
Ironically, my efforts to turn a mud-stained pair of shorts white again have been totally unsuccessful. Life is so unfair.
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2 comments:
ahhhh! you didn't tell me about the pillow cases! NOOO!!!! those were passed down by my great grandmother! jk.
is this like when you leave your puppy home alone and he shits in your shoe b/c he's pissed off that you're gone? at least you miss me. at least you didn't shit in my shoe...right...right?!
btw, you're NEVER gonna get any work done now. welcome to the blogosphere. tell me about the sevens.
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