Queen of the Washamachine

I feel purposeful as I slide my feet down the cement hallway to the whirring room where every girl and boy in Comstock Hall does all of their laundry. Like the insomniac freak I am, I don’t usually start my loads until around 1:00, to ensure that there are driers free when my load finishes. I told myself that I’d finish homework in this empty time, this nighttime, when I sit upstairs in my room and wait for LaundryView (oh excellent web site!) to tell me that my drier cycle has come to an end. But oh, the endless glories of the Internet! The temptation of instant messaging with a friend in Switzerland! The endless web sites to be surfed, Facebook walls to be written on, email to be checked and rechecked, feedreaders to empty!

And as my roommate snores in the bed across the room from me, I wait. Tonight will be another late night, possibly ending in me falling asleep atop another Spanish reading.

Oh, and by the way: I am no longer referring to washing machines as “washing machines.” It is much preferable to sloosh the words together to make one fluid motion of a word. From now on: washamachine.

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