Regrets.

I'm spoiling to do laundry.
The laundry room is right outside my apartment door.
So it should be a piece of cake, a walk in the park.
Right?
Except for my blonde neighbor next door.
On Tuesdays she's in the laundry room from 11 a.m. until 4 p.m., which is when I want to do my laundry. 
In fact, that's the day, Tuesday, when the curled up sheet of yellow paper on the wall in the laundry room says it's my turn to do laundry.
Monday is too early. Wednesday I've already run out of clean shirts.
I'm not a morning laundry person, or an evening laundry person.
It's midday Tuesday or never.

I can look and smell like a slob. No problem.
I've done it before.
Once I went to church back in Minnesota without shaving all week and wearing a long sleeve white shirt with black ridges on the cuffs and the collar filled with dozens of black pills, like fleas.
An old guy who knew me for ten years came up and asked if I was new in the Ward. He was sniffing for tobacco or alcohol or something. The old fart.

But I wanna go out tonight to a coffee shop for hot chocolate and to meet a brainy girl who carries a big heavy book. So I can tell her I've outgrown P.G. Wodehouse.
Darn that blonde, anyways.
She leans way over the machines when she puts things in and takes things out, so I'm gonna have pale blonde hairs all over my clothes.
Gag a maggot!
All she washes are jeans and black t-shirts.
I should say something to her.
But she's a heavy sigher. Sighs like she's ready to pass a bowling ball.
So I'll wait until she's done, if I don't fall asleep first.
Gotta stay mad. Angry is good, when you need to stay awake.
Hope I've got enough quarters. 
There better not be any Canadian quarters . . . 
Why the hell did I ever sell our house on Como Avenue?
It had a bright white washer and dryer in the basement.