After decades of not having to do laundry like a barbarian, I’m living at an apartment complex that has a laundry room. (I hesitate to call it a ‘complex,’ though; it’s more akin to a ‘simplex.’)

For fans of horror, you’d love the laundry room here. It’s not a place you’d want to be if the lights suddenly and unexpectedly began to flicker. Even the bugs have little bitty locks on their hiding places down there. I’m tempted to put a little speaker and transmitter in so that I can pipe maniacal laughter in there and then film people running out of there like they got trapped in a Republican budget meeting. If I were to drive up and see a film crew nearby, I would assume they’re scouting potential locations for the next installment of “A Nightmare On Elm Street,” with a particular interest in my apartment’s laundry room.

A few minutes ago, I went to move my clothes from the washer to the dryer. Exiting the room, I found myself toe-to-toe, so to speak, with a very large spider. Keep in mind that I’m not afraid of spiders. This one, however, was large and had a discernible attitude. I say that only because it seemed to have a knife, as well as several tattoos.

Also, I propose that we immediately start using the phrase “clothes yoga” instead of “folding clothes.”

I’d write a bit more, but I’m working on this story about a haunted laundry room.
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P.S. As people keep saying, the internet is where you find out who has a sense of humor. Likewise, I tend to employ a bit of hyperbole in what I write. It doesn’t negate the nuggets of truth I incorporate honestly in my stories and anecdotes. Nor does it mean that things are devoid of positivity or advantages. If you read things I write with an active asshole filter, some things will indubitably cross your wires. Also, this laundry room does not spark joy. If it ever gets remodeled, I do hope they use CSI as the new theme. (If only to save money on needless extra touches…)