~laundry~ [17/17] accepting replacementaters

[MariaR]

Lord have mercy

[Ser Arthur Dayne]

Maria let's be the same alignment this time

[Errantparabola]

Alright, so I have class in 20-ish mins but I'm currently working on getting the game up and rolling, so expect role PMs to be out at a bumpin pace.

[Andrius]

[Alisae]

Good luck ywall!

[MariaR]

Maria let's be the same alignment this time

I CALLED YOUR ASS FROM THE START AND I'M STILL SALTY FUCKING-
*ahem*
okay

[Firebringer]

maria is a sock this game.

[Pine]

Filthy sock

[MariaR]

Wth you bullies

[Andrius]

I found you an avatar for this game, Fire.

[Firebringer]

i was actually thinking of putting a sock on growlithes head.

[Andrius]

I can't change mine since I need it for my mini but if someone put a sock of something on my head I wouldn't complain.

[Firebringer]

i will put panties on your head.

[gerryoat]

Cool playlist

besides u

[Andrius]

i will put panties on your head.

If you could not, that'd be great.

[MariaR]

Id love to see that
AND GERRY PLEASE ;~:

[Firebringer]

i will put panties on your head.

If you could not, that'd be great.

[Andrius]

Id love to see that
AND GERRY PLEASE ;~:

maria pls
don't encourage him

[Firebringer]

by the end of this game, mark my words.
you will be drowning in dirty laundry andrius.
all over your profile image.

[drealmerz7]

dirty panties?!...that's so scummy

or the panties are...

PSYCHED

[drealmerz7]

AWAY with toxic chemical-ridden detergents!!! destroying the planet to wash clothes is REPREHENSIBLE and so, be conscious, care, and use

[McMenno]

oops I missed this

[PeregrineV]

Okay, so here's the situation. You've just had a 4 hour nap-- at that point, it's more like sleep. It's 2 in the fucking morning, and you decide that you're going to do the laundry. You empty the hamper filled with clothes into your laundry basket, top it off with the detergent, heft it up, and make the trek down the laundry room. You're groggy, underdressed, and the cold bites at you like a rabid wolf puppy abandoned at birth, but you get there. It's a large pile, so it takes two washing machines-- perfect for separating colors. That's a mini victory there. Watch out, because that's the last victory you're getting today. In fact, the last one you're getting for the rest of your life.

A few useless posters with instructions on how to work the machines, lights that are only partly on, and a drinking fountain set the scene. The green "30" menacingly stands out against the dimly lit room, letting you know how much time until your clothes are finished washing. You make the trek back to your dorm, basket and detergent in hand. You're still more tired than an overstocked auto shop, so it takes 45 minutes to realize that its time to leave the warmth of your dorm room equipped with the drying sheets, the laundry basket, and the lack of foresight to dress more warmly despite already suffering through one round trip.

Taking the clothes out of the washer and putting them into the dryer is peppered with the occasional swear when a soggy article of clothing slips from your grasp and falls onto the floor. A cursory job to be sure, but at this point the amount of fucks you give is equivalent to the number of other people in the laundry room. That's right. Zero. Soon enough, the clothes are in the dryer, and when you swipe your card to start the machine, you punch in an extra dry cycle because you swear that those goddamn machines always leave some clothes just a little fucking damp no matter what level of heat you use. Why did you even bring the laundry basket? You didn't need the laundry basket. You take it back for another walk through Siberia, past a few buildings, up a few flights of stairs, unlock the hallway door, unlock the room door, you're home free.

After an hour and a half, you prepare to make the trek again. Did you remember to put on a fucking jacket, you dumbass? Let me answer that question for you. You did not. You're pretty sure that frostbite and hypothermia have more than set in when you open the door to the laundry room this time. The door swings closed behind you and you realize that you forgot to take the dryer sheets back from your last excursion. No big deal, but that's when the second sack of bricks hits you-- you forgot to bring the fucking laundry basket with you. There's no way you're going through that snowstorm again, so you decide that the laundry basket can go fuck itself, you're doing this caveman style-- arms only.

You take all of the clothes out of the dryer and fold them, noting that, of course, some clothes decided to defy all expectations and stay slightly wet because the world decided to take a massive shit on you today. You pick up this towering stack and cradle it like some sort of inhumanly massive baby, balancing the cursed dryer sheets on top, and open the door to face the Everestesque conditions that await you. It's heavy and the struggle is only exacerbated because you're exhausted, as your sleep schedule is less regular than the heartbeat of a someone that diagnosed themselves with cardiomyopathy on WebMD. Every step is like an earthquake on this ridiculously structurally unsound tower, and pants, socks, sweaters threaten to fly everywhere in defiance of your weak grasp on the stack. You battle the cold and continually slipping folded clothes for an eternity until you finally reach your building. You swear it takes you so long that your classmates have probably gotten married, became parents, grandparents, died, and decomposed by the time you make it.

What lies ahead of you is not even close to easier. Four flights of stairs and two doors, both of which you need to unlock with a physical key that you need to turn. Somehow you shift it so that one of your arms is free, run the gauntlet, and reach your room, half setting, half throwing the clothes down onto the bed. You see a disheveled pile and most of your folding work undone, and had you not want to wake your roommate, you would scream at the heavens for being so unforgiving. The worst part is-- almost every mishap was entirely your doing. Your failure to problem solve, your stubbornness, your absentmindedness. Your fingers brush against one of your hoodies, still damp, ice-cold from its journey through the Russian winter, and take solace in the fact that at least one of the events that decided to penetrate your ass wasn't guided by your own hand.

Yes, exactly.

[PeregrineV]

/replace