The instant you fan out your laundry before throwing it on your laundry horse and the pant leg whips and sends your dildo (that you didn't realize you laundered in the first place) flying through the air to smack against the wall hard enough to knock posters off the wall and you breath a sigh of relief because it hit plaster instead of the back of your roommates head. And you breath another sigh of relief because you don't have a roommate. And then breath a sigh of frustration because you have to put your posters back up yourself, because there's no one to blame but yourself and your overly enthusiastic laundromatic expertise.
Fuck, where's the tape.
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