July 19, 2007
I know I didn’t pick you, and you didn’t pick me. You came with the house. To be perfectly honest, it was a seller’s market. We had to decide fast. I don’t think I even looked at you in the brief run through the house before we made an offer. We never bonded. I never had that moment in the showroom where I said “This is the dryer I shall entrust with my clothing, and perhaps that of my children’s children, if all goes well.” But for Christ’s sakes, those were expensive pants! Why? How can you possibly justify what you did to my new yoga pants? I stood there, crying, holding the pieces, looking to you for sympathy. And what did you do? Nothing. Just sat there with your door wide open, mocking me. That’s it, bitch. The gloves are off. I hope you get cancer and die.
July 20, 2007
I’ve had some time to think things through. I understand now why you may have acted out. If someone kept me in a dank, mildewy basement, I’d get a little bitchy too. Admittedly, our relationship has been a little one sided; you give me dry clothes, I take all your lint away. And today I actually looked at you, hard. You’re a McLary. I don’t even think they make you anymore. You’re the last of a once noble family.
I still don’t agree with the way you chose to express yourself, but I hear your message. You’re tired. I’ll start shopping for something new. And we’ll have a nice ceremony, where your door will be removed, and you’ll be placed gently in a landfill. It’s the least I can do.
Warmest Regards and Mad Respect,