I am a seething yuppie cauldron of distaste and self-righteous rage demanding I be treated as privileged. In other words, why the fuck did I go to the laundromat?

I’ve had piles of post-holiday and post-trip laundry to cleanse, but I’ve been too worn down and sick to wrestle it down to an appropriate facility. Tonight, I thought, Friday night, I am too ill to party and who does laundry on Friday night, ‘cept losers like me.

Sweet, it was empty for the wash cycle and halfway through my drying. In my sniffling misery I was mustering a pale friend of content.

Then, the family of FUCKING FIVE kids and a mom (who disappeared for awhile) descended. Five! Man, I am amazed old Pat didn’t beat one of us five to death or drown us all just for some blissful peace and quiet.

The three boys were playing catch with a football across the laundromat. The older girl was flipping out at various perceived indescretions and alternating between normal conversational voice and tantrum yelling of orders or complaints. The baby girl was too fucking little to be running around screaming relatively unsupervised. (How and why, oh, why do little girls achieve that piercing siren scream that just hurts?)

I lost my shit and scolded the nearest kid when the two-(maybe three)-year-old girl (who incidentally was troll ugly) crawled into one of the driers and started to shut the door behind her.

I’m too fucking sick to have to witness the thinning of the herd in Darwinesque destiny today. Else maybe I would have just let her crawl right in and tossed a quarter in for the ride of her life. Harried Mom probably would have thanked me.