There is one chore I hate more than any other chore in the universe. That chore is laundry. I have 50 pairs of underwear for the very purpose of avoiding laundry day. I would probably wear my undies 2 days in a row to tack on a few extra laundry free days, if I didn't have a huge fear that that would be the day someone would see my 2-day undaroos. The washer, then dryer, then FOLDING. Thinking about this annoys me.
Worst part is that by the time your jeans smell like a bathroom full of farts woven into fabric they are the perfect fit. No longer snug, with a little give in the hips. But it's time to wash them because you are almost 26 and if you don't attract a man within the next few years you are going to be like one of those chicks from Sex and the City but with no sex, more cats, and cobwebbed genitals (how gross is that word? Genitals. Hahaha). So, you wash the jeans. Lo and behold, you have to suck-in and jump around your apartment just to get them to zip. "Did I gain weight during the 3 hours it took me to do laundry?" NO, YOU DIDN'T. Just, when you turned the dryer dial to 60-minutes, those 60 minutes included a shot to your self-esteem and a complimentary serving of a 2-day muffin top.
Don't even get me started on the fucking socks.
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