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The Wiles That Make the Poet

December 6, 2010

After a hard day of calling biohazard companies, hunting rats, seeing roof tiles almost fall on babies, researching historical Chinese prostitute outfits, and distracting myself from the unbearable emotional chaos of life with Dorothea Lasky’s poetry about the unbearable emotional chaos of life, I just want to go to bed and get a good night’s sleep. Men of Athens, exterminators of Vancouver, courtesans of Suzhou, is this unreasonable? I submit to you that it is not.

I live right above my building’s laundry room, which is no problem most of the time. The sounds of washers and dryers pounding and spinning the filth out of everyone’s clothing can easily be drowned out by any number of musical artists and genres, from Snoop Dogg to Cat Power. There’s a sign on the door stating that laundry hours are 7:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m., which is very inunreasonable, and most people’s loonie-and-quarter-depleting interactions with the machines fall well within these limits. Considering how many bachelor suites are in this building and how many of said suites are occupied by dudes in their early 20s (I’ve begun to suspect I’m the only woman here), it’s been an amazingly quiet place to live so far, touch wood. Not that kind of wood. God. Focus, okay? Stay with the group, McPerverson. I had been feeling sympathetic toward you because of your unfortunate last name but it turns out to have been suiting you perfectly all along.

Once or twice a week, some assclown insists on doing laundry at an idiotic time, thereby waking me the hell up. I’ve been letting it go for a few weeks, but tension is mounting. Because I’m so benevolent, before I dropped the following in my landlord’s mailbox earlier this morning, I scanned it for you to enjoy.

#103 in your program, #1 in your heart, am I right?

I have all these revenge ideas in my head, like:

  • going in there while the dryer is on and simply opening its door, upon which it will cease to spin, leaving the inconsiderate tenant with wet clothes. Heh heh heh heh heh heh heh heh.
  • going in there while the dryer is on and taking out all the clothes and hanging them neatly on the drying rack beside the dryer and leaving a note on the dryer that’s just a big smiley face. Heh heh heh heh heh heh heh hehhhh…
  • going in there while the dryer is on and hiding in the bathroom (the laundry room seems to be just a gutted bachelor suite) until the evil laundry-doer comes in to change a load, then bursting out and scaring the shit out of him. “DROP THE CLOTHES! GET ON THE GROUND! HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW, LATE-ASS LAUNDRY-ASS MUTHAFUCKA? Hey, looks like your pants are dirty; better wash ’em…BUT NOT UNTIL 7:00 A.M.!” Heh heh heh etc.
  • composing a well-written poem that casts aspersions upon people who do their laundry at inappropriate times of the day, then going in there while the dryer is on and leaving it on top of the dryer for him to find and be weirded out by. Heh heh heh heh heh?

The poem idea is probably the best one. You never know when the person with 400 pairs of jeans who wakes you up at 3:30 on a Monday morning to throw them in the dryer is a high-ranking editor at Penguin Books who’s looking for the next big name in classically inspired invective poetry.

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