2003-02-26 - 11:50 a.m.

Grrr...

On my way down to the laundry room (wearing a wife-beater and with my hair all sleep-mussed), I heard the mumblings of adult male townies--something about how many quarters the machines took--they were climbing the stairs, so I let them pass.

They both had mustaches. I had a gigantic bag of laundry resting on one shoulder.

As they passed, the younger stash mumbled something about maybe coming back later.

I finished my descent and two out of two washers were open, so I filled 'em, and just as I slid my quarters into the second machine, the stash duo returned, saw that both washers were occupied, and started eying the dryers, hoping that maybe they doubled as washers or something, mumbling about how expensive the local laundromat is.

I don't even think they live in the building.

Grrr. My Flingie-sense is tingling, and I'm wondering if I should just sit down there for the next hour so that they don't fuck with my clothes.

Grrr. I'm soooo fucking sick of having every tiny fucking little thing that I do be conditional to the chance that some asshole might try to fuck it up.

Everything--from lighting up a cigarette outside (and some jackass wants one), to walking around (and some jackass gets in my way), to waiting for the bus at night (and some jackass tries to jack my ass), to watching TV at night (and that bitch comes up to bitch) to doing frickin' laundry (and having to worry about two stashed townies who might try to hijack my washer).

Even the passive act of waiting for a package is wrought with peril--I don't even have anything delivered here, lest I never see it.

Well, I guess it's time to finish my book--in the frickin' laundry room.