Every Sunday, I take my clothes to do laundry. From the apartment door, I force myself to the garage. “Time to dry laundry,” I tiredly say. Jamming and jiggling the key into the knob is opening a door to what I hate. The dryer.

This washing machine was the most useless piece of metal I have ever seen. It takes my clothes, weakly dries them, and gives me my clothes back half-wet. And it charges me a freaking $1.25! Even the sun does a better job, for free. Ten times out of ten, I would pick that bright beam of light over that old cube.

In front of the beloved washing machine, I place the laundry basket down onto the floor. Then, I open the washer and heave the clothes out of there. As grateful as I am for the work it does, it still takes effort to get the clothes out. “Ugh, you got this. Almost done.” As I grab the last pair of pants, a red piece of paper catches my eye. “Wait, what’s that?” I walk up closer, press my mask onto my nose bridge, and read, “Notice: Out of Order: Check back next week.” Suddenly, a lightning bolt of revelation hits me, and my thoughts drain and change. Dramatically, I exclaim. “Next week! No, no no, no no!!! This is serious! All my clothes are wet; what will I wear to school tomorrow?” Madly, I stomp my feet, only to realize something else. “Wait, what did I just step into? Agh… dirty water. Eww…” I stammer, thinking about how I stepped into a puddle that leaks… from the washer?

I like the washer, yes, but only because it does what I don’t want to do myself. “The washer soaks my clothes. Anyone can do that. The dryer dries them up. Nobody can do that.” Basically, it undoes what the washer does. It fixes the washer’s actions. It’s the yang of the yin. “Ok, I owe you, dryer. Messing something up is easier than making it,” I say. Proceedingly, I kick my wet shoe, sending droplets flying into the air and onto the floor. With that, drops hit the electric box, and the lights go off. “Ok, that is just…” and I’m back to where I started.