Illustration by Bob AulThey say that the fights in apartment complexes are so savage because the stakes are so low. And when they say that, I'm guessing they're thinking of buttholes like you—people for whom monitoring the laundry room is as high as you'll ever get in life. Behind your back, we call you the laundry Nazi. All day long, it seems, you sit in the laundry room, telling us which washers we can use, which dryers; your entire way of being is one of anxiety—as if anyone in our building could make use of underpants as large as yours for anything other than a parachute. But when our neighbors have contemplated attacks on you and your laundry, I've played the part of Kofi Anan, counseling peace and diplomacy. But that was then. Yesterday, when my wash finished five minutes before I could get back to it (I was helping one of our elderly neighbors get her groceries upstairs), you dumped my clothes on the ground. On the fucking ground. When I asked you why you'd do such a thing, you acted as if making you wait for a washing machine was the equivalent of invading a foreign country, raping and killing its women and enslaving its children. I'm not ordinarily the vengeful sort, but that changes now. When I strike, I will be silent. I will ride the scent of winter freshness. I will remove the stain of your sin. Bleach is abundant, and bleach is cheap. You will move among us like an iceberg. And my war against your petty tyranny will not stop there. Beware.
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