I was there because all our towels were dirty. OK, stop laughing. See, I dropped off laundry the other week and I swear to God I put in, like, seventeen towels, but only two came out. Either they were in the hamper so long they resorted to cannibalism, or the laundry people stole them.
(Or they got high and wandered off...)
I think the laundry people stole them.
Hear me out.
We were missing towels, but we also got a single baby sock. Do you think that's a message? Is that like The Godfather horse head of launderers?
Anyway, I was sick of using the same damp, accidentally Clearasil-bleached towel that Jeff and I have been sharing for a week. It had gotten to the point where every time I wiped my face I was acutely aware of the statistical likelihood that I was putting my nose to a swath of towel that had been used to dry genitals (after a week, I'm pretty sure it's like 100%).
So I bought two new towels instead of doing laundry. (It could have been worse--when I lived with a group of men after college, they once left a dirty pot go for so long that it grew its own ecosystem. Lifting the lid was seriously like peering down into Fraggle Rock. Rather than washing this pot, my roommates duct-taped the lid shut and put it out on the curb. This was probably during a "Stairway Clean," a technique they invented in which we tidied the entire house in the time it took to play Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven.)
Point being, buying new towels instead of doing laundry is lazy as hell, but I don't want another baby sock, dude. That shit freaks me out.