For the past few months, I have been having an affair.  As torturous as it is to admit, for weeks now I have been getting boned hard by Art’s Laundry Service, Incorporated.  It is a sordid, passionate affair, full of love and hate… but recently, Art has completely broken my spirit.  My soul is in ruins as he happily frolics over the washed-out, moldy remnants of my favorite shirt.

Everything was fine when I first moved in.  I did my laundry in peace, there was a bountiful supply of detergent and the water was always hot.  Soon, Art began to tempt me with his lusty “Speed Queen” washers.  They were decades old, sure, but these buxom girls still had some spunk to their spin cycle.  I even trusted them enough to leave the room during the wash, only to have my heart ripped out upon discovering my dear Speed Queens were whores.  A neighbor of mine MOVED MY CLOTHES without my knowledge or consent after the wash cycle had finished maybe five minutes prior to my arrival.  My Speed Queens rinsed their new loads giddily while I cried over my wasted dollars… and it was all downhill from there.  Art’s cheerful “Call me for repairs” sign gave me no comfort as my Speed Queens began to fall apart.  One Speed Queen became addicted to powdered soap and always had a basin full of the stuff…  Even my steadfast allies, The Dryers, began to show signs of disloyalty.  One just couldn’t get hot for me anymore, the spark was gone.  One ran far too long and shrank my favorite shirt while leaving everything else sopping wet.  “These sluts,” I thought to myself.  “I will never be free of these accursed vixens.”

Then, under the cover of night, Art came and removed ALL my machines.  My old friends… all of our history vanished in a matter of minutes.  As there were NO FLIERS OF ANY KIND indicating that my beloved washing whores would be leaving me, I had already hauled a full basket of laundry down to the room only to discover the horrible truth.  So I was forced to go to the closest public laundromat.  Art punished me for this indiscretion.  The detergent spilled in my trunk.  Each load cost $3 to run.  The change machine was apparently too good for my money.  Every machine was covered in either hair, dirt or soap.  Understanding I had been bested, I praised the almighty Art and prayed for the swift return of my Speed Queens.  Someone asked me if I was alright.  “Of course not!”  I sobbed.  “My washing machines are cheating sluts… and I miss them terribly.”  No one at that laundromat has spoken to me since.

So please, Art… I love you.  I miss my machines… I can’t live without them!  Please, give me a way to do my laundry again.  Things haven’t been the same without you.