Illustration by Bob AulSend anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/o OC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
You and I met in the laundry room of our apartment complex. I just sat there reading my book, waiting for my laundry to dry.
"Are these your clothes?" you asked, indicating a load in the washing machine.
"No," I said. And then I watched you do something unbelievably bad-mannered, boorish and obnoxious: you took someone's clothes out of the washing machine, and you put them on the floor.
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On the floor. Where people walk. Clean, wet clothes. Dirty floor.
I gave you my best look of astonishment, and you said, "Everyone does it."
Everyone? Where were you raised? Because I never want to go there.
To paraphrase my mom, let me tell you, if everyone jumped into a washing machine, I hope that you would follow them because I would be the first to slam quarters into the machine.
Speaking of mom: I don't even let her touch my clothes. Therefore, I never, ever want to catch you with your dirty paws on my underwear.
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