I've managed to avoid doing laundry for the last two months by buying new underwear almost every weekend. I'm up to about 20 pairs. Tonight I said to myself, "Self, enough of this craziness! You are down to your last pair. Stop the underwear-buying frenzy. Do a load." "Fine. I will, bitch," I said back.

I threw on some sweat shorts and an old t-shirt (It's always difficult to find something to wear while doing laundry if you wait as long as I do), stuffed as much dirty laundry into my basket as I could and headed downstairs to Ghettoridge's lovely laundry facilities.

On my way there, I saw a woman sitting on her front steps with her dog, a Jack Russell Terrier. He was chasing a ball and galavanting about, all cheerful and excited. I couldn't help grinning at his excitement. It kind of put me in a good mood. "Hi!" I said to the woman. I expected her to smile back at me and return the greeting, but she just kind of stared at me and looked me up and down. "Hello..." she said.

"Geez," I thought. "What's her problem? That'll teach me to be friendly. Whatever."

Later, when I went to pick up my laundry, I saw two cops walking through the complex (Not a wholly unusual sight here at Ghettoridge, where the ghetto bird circles nightly and sirens lull you to sleep). As I passed by them, I could see them look me up and down. "Jesus. What perverts," I thought.

When I got back to my apartment, I flopped down on my bed. My shirt felt a little tight around my neck. I tugged at it, trying to loosen it, thinking I'd sat on the back of it, pulling it tightly around my neck and chest. "What the fuck is wrong with this-"

I stood up quickly and ran to the mirror, realizing what I'd done, but needing confirmation.

My shirt was on backwards.


And inside out.


So were my shorts.