Get your own washing machine

It's Sunday, and that means laundry. So Jordan grabbed a pile of dirty linens and tossed them into one of the washing machines on our floor. When I went to transfer the laundry, both of the dryers were occupied, so I dropped them off upstairs. Skip forward an hour, when I'm walking back to our apartment with my arms full.

In front of me is a guy I've never seen before. He turns around to glance at me 3-4 times - very odd. He knocks on the apartment door across from ours, and when the door opens, a disembodied (female) voice asks sharply, "where are they?" The guy whispers, so as to not be conspicuous (nice try, jackass), "I think she's got them," tilting his head ever so slightly in my direction.

When I emptied the laundry bag onto our futon, what did I find but someone else's whites mixed in with our towels and sheets:



What. the. fuck.

We're not just talking about any-ol' whites. Someone had the audacity to mingle her nasty-ass, grotesquely pit-stained Juicy Couture blouse, socks, and cotton panties in with the towels we use to dry ourselves and the sheets upon which we sleep. Such an outrageous breach of etiquette neither Jordan nor I had ever encountered.

Use of a washer in our apartment costs $1.65. Dryers run $1.50. There are people in our building on public assistance, and presumably they're able to afford these modest sums. If not, maybe they use old-fashioned wash basins. Our neighbors, on the other hand, are yuppies. They can pay to wash their own clothes, and quite possibly dry clean them from time to time. What's more, when their arm pits render a white garment two shades darker than a cappuccino, they can probably afford to replace it.

I alerted Jordan to this act of malfeasance and asked what we should do. He immediately flew into a fit of spasmodic rage. "Are you joking? They're going down the trash chute." Pointing at the whites, he rhetorically asked, "What kind of sick fuckers would do that?" So, keeping our neighbor's befouled apparel at an arm's length, he dropped them into the garbage can.



We then went out to run errands and put the matter behind us, at least until the time came to draft this tighten up report. However, when we came home, we spotted a note taped to the laundry room wall:



Oh, Sarah. Don't do that. Don't compound your miserly, misanthropic misdeeds by lying about them. You've left us no choice, Sarah. We must deploy the dreaded tighten up card, scourge of laxity everywhere.



Sarah, you are delusional and in dire need of a tightening up.