GUESTBREAKER: You’ve (Recently) Been Photographed Wearing Jorts
Alright, so this picture was taken a while ago. Wait, what? That says 2008. We may have come a long way since 2008, especially in terms of Apple products, but not far enough to excuse you wearing jean shorts. I was excited that you liked the same music that I do and that you were ballsy enough to contact me through a mutual friend. So I admit it: I
Facebook stalked you. A bit. Not excessively, of course, because I stopped when I hit jean shorts. So unless you have an excuse of some sort or you turn out to be virtually perfect in many other ways, I’m gonna have to say “no, I don’t want to listen to your cover band, I have to wash my hair that night.”An Anonymous Guest Dealbreaker.
Over the past two years in college, I have somehow managed to get away without having to put up with awkward small talk in the laundry room. That meant dragging my bag full of dirty clothes to the basement after my 8 am classes or at midnight while I was finishing papers due the next morning. But now I’m a normal person, doing the annoying chore whenever I have spare time, which consequently means dealing with fellow laundry room goers. AND THIS means dealing with fellow co-ed morons who seem to be depleted of common sense.
First of all, if your wash is done don’t leave it sitting in the washer. And definitely don’t come into the laundry room 20 minutes AFTER your wash is done and give me an exasperated look when you realize I moved your shit so I could use this thing here called a washer. I least I had the decency to move your clothes to a dryer, even if that meant I had to touch your stained undies. You’re lucky I only dry heaved and didn’t puke on your clothes, too.
And speaking of unmentionables, if you’re waiting for me to move my clothes so you can use the washer, by all means PLEASE watch me put my underwear, one by one, into the dryer. Seriously, it doesn’t make me think you are a perv or have a panty fetish at all—especially if no one else is in the room and you are standing against the washer with both hands propped up against your cheeks eying my every move.
Also, just because we are in the same room doesn’t mean I want to talk to you. I don’t care if you just found the best smelling softener or if you want to talk about something even more fascinating like the weather—chances are, I don’t want to hear it. I just want my freshly laundered clothes so I can get the hell out of there.
Lord beer me strength.
Bringing this shit back from the grave. Bootydrops, ahoy!
Enough with the thrift store apparel that makes you look “quirky,” the scraggly beards in which I’ve seen prepubescent kids grow something better, and the ukulele covers of songs which should not have been made in the first place.
Preach.
