Et tu, Borox?

I sat up in bed this morning, awoken an hour early by the sunlight dancing through my window blinds. The first few minutes of my morning ritual are always fuzzy, but subtract an hour of sleep and I arise like a zombie on ambien -- over-sedated and constantly hungry.

I slowly convinced my legs that, yes, it is imperative you get two out of bed, and then torso will follow. I could faintly hear my roommate still in the shower, so I tried to figure out what clothes I was going to wear for the day.

I opened my dresser drawer, which is always an exercise in futility. The clothes are half folded, crammed in because I have more tshirts than days of the year. There's no organization, no darks and lights, no summer and winter clothes. It is a jumble of unmatched socks and ripped boxers, stiff x-large promotional tshirts I've never worn and jeans with button flys.

In short, it is a godawful mess.

I believe that my dresser, along with the milk carton I drink from and my unmade bed, are the three sacred items in my apartment that keep Laurie from pushing towards marriage. As such, these are the three items that fuel my bachelorhood -- tomes of power that work in perfect male unity. The triforce of my testosterone.

It is crucial that I keep from cleaning up my act, because the wolves are at the door. I just checked my Netflix queue, and the last two movies rented were "Lady and the Tramp" and "Pride and Prejudice." Either I'm writing a comparative essay on socialite behavior in canines and humans, or Laurie is slowly winning the war.

I blame this lack of he-manism (real word, look it up) on my mom. She made me do my own laundry at the age of 7. I could barely reach the hot/cold knob at the time, but she threatened me with a mutilated snuggle bear until I was able to fold fitted sheets. The first time I washed dark red socks with my white undershirts, she beat me with dryer sheet boxes until I passed out in a haze of spring breeze scent.

It was a cruel life, but not completely without rewards. I became proficient at removing spaghetti stains by age 10, and by 12 I was ironing dress pants. When I left for college, I was able to pass this knowledge on to others whose mothers had (gasp) done their laundry for them.

So, today, what has gone wrong? Why doth my hamper overfloweth?

I blame the facilities at my current apartment -- we share one ancient washer and dryer with at least 16 people, possibly more. The basement that houses these malevolent maytags is covered in dirt, to the point that laundry never really leaves any cleaner than it entered.

Thus, my dirty clothes take a little shop of horrors presence in my room, constantly asking to be fed. But I warn you, laundry, beware the Tide of march.