It had purple carpet, because Heidi liked pink and I liked purple. My bed had a soft comforter that was just two sheets sewn together with batting between, but I loved it and kept it through college. Lee Gebhardt wrote all over his chest with lipstick and spread eagle fell on it, so it was stained forever. He loved me, but I didn't love him because of that, plus he was a grade below me. I kept my typewriter in the closet. It had a satisfying click click click and bang when I typed. I'm sure the room smelled like White Rain, because that was the only hairspray I had late elementary into junior high. I'm sure it tasted like it too, because that stuff gets in your mouth. Heidi and I had some kind of speaker system we could use to talk back and forth. I kept it on my nightstand, and when we were supposed to be going to sleep, Heidi would crackle in with some nonsense and we would giggle until we got in trouble.
It's like a wash cycle. Press play and it knows what to do first, the thought that follows, the spin cycle that takes over, and the short calm that exists before it all begins again - the drum never getting emptied. Just an endless rinse and repeat, no change of clothes, no new soap, nothing new at all. It's these same old thoughts, the same old process of attempting to wring them out. To finally cleanse them of their soil and fill the drum with something fresh. Yet it seems like nothing new will ever get added. There will be no opportunity. The laundromat is closed, or indefinitely broken. Relational struggle filled with critique and complaint - all righteous of course - it's what's stuck in the drum now. I desire new thoughts but, somehow, it's always the toxic parts that want the longest wash cycle. Sometimes I open the detergent drawer and add in a heavy dose of bleach, "that'll do it, it should come out clean this time." But it's hard, trying,...
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