Laundry Shoppe O' Horrors

Allow me to rant for a moment, or through an entire blog.

Today I have to do laundry after work. After catering to a bunch of lawyers, who think being a receptionist makes me a phone-answering dishwasher and general all-around mail-distributing housekeeper, I have to go drag my tired body down to a laundry mat to wash and dry my clothes and sit there for two hours to ensure my panties don't end up on the ground, or stolen and sniffed by some sick fuck.
On several occasions I have returned to the laundry mat to retrieve my clothing only to find someone has haphazardly thrown my clothes in a basket and pushed them off to the wayside. On one unfortunate occasion I actually witnessed a man, much larger than myself, ripping my clothing out of the wash, with filthy hands, after the machine had finished it's spin cycle only 3.3 minutes prior (I have that shit timed, man). I ran up, ready to beat this man within an inch of his life, when I realized he could probably kill me much easier than I him. I did tell him that I thought he was a jerk!, and that I had only been gone a moment, but he was unmoved by my insults and declarations of timeliness. I had been defeated by the laundry mat once again!
On another especially awful occasion, my laundry was actually trapped in one of the washers for more than an hour. There was no number to call and no one around to help me. After deciding against calling the police to inform them that a washing machine had taken my clothing hostage, I ended up calling my Dad back in Portland who could do absolutely nothing but laugh at my predicament. This did actually pull me back from teetering on the edge of my very sanity, but it did not however release my clothes from the evil grip of an unfeeling washing machine. Finally, after ages, some dirty hippies walked in and glady kicked the door repeatedly until it opened. I was happy to have my laundry back and happier still to have seen the machine abused in such a ruthless way, but again, the laundry gods were laughing at me alone.
I really was at one time a diligently clean-clothed person. I used to do my laundry every other day when all it took was the energy to walk down a flight of stairs and deposit my laundry in the wash. I usually did this in some unsightly, ill-fitting garments since I had the luxury of doing laundry in the privacy of my own home, but no more. Now, I have to dress appropriately to clean my clothes and waste precious waking hours to do something I loathe. I only wear a week's worth of clothing mind you, making these trips to the laundry mat necessary at least once a week. Today is Tuesday. The last time I made the inevitable trip to the privacy-free, filthy laundry mat was not this past Sunday, but the Sunday prior. For me, this means that today I'm wearing sweat-formed socks and no underwear. It is not liberating. I do not feel punk rock. I have been reduced to a crusted-sock wearing, underwearless dirtbag.
And, as if it wasn't aggrevating enough to have to wash and dry my clothing outside my home, I also need to wash and dry my bedding and towels. This will take an extra roll of quarters and an extended visit to the bane of my existence. Now I do know that I'm lucky to be alive and even luckier to live in a home in a quiet neighborhood in Oakland with nice, respectful roommates, but holy fuck! Why couldn't I have been blessed with on-site laundry as well? Dear Santa Claus, all I want for Christmas is a washer and dryer, or a nevertnding supply of clean clothes and sheets. That's all.