Laundry is hardly an appropriate chore for someone with my caliber of intellectual and creative talents to be wasting valuable thought processes on. It's is an idefatigable thorn in my side that will follow me unto my deathbed, at which point I will have attained sweet victory over laundry by being an invalid clothed in one-piece garments that will double as my bathroom. It will be a bittersweet victory to say the least.
For whatever reason I cannot bring myself to do this most menial of chores on a regular basis. I sit here, typing this post, wearing my pair of swim trunks and a football jersey. The piles of clothes sit around my room like leaves waiting to be bagged by migrant workers in the yard of some millionaire living in the Beverly Hills. I bet that millionaire doesn't do his own laundy. He doesn't goddamn have to! He's got those migrants to do his laundry for him.
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