Sights From The Laundry Mat
If you are one of those strange freaks who likes doing laundry please send me your number, otherwise...
As I sit outside the laundry mat, waiting on a load to wash (read that as I'm out of panties and I'm wearing the only thong I have; and why in the hell did I buy dental floss for my buttcrack in the first place!) the blowers make this corner of the street cool. So perhaps that is one point for the laundry mat. I despise doing laundry, and if I wasn't sweating September's rent and bills I would be using the fluff and fold. Yet, a rainbow of people float by giving me some distraction, all reflecting the blend of New York and particularly Queens.
There's the Spanish Dude with his lotto tickets; he's on his third trip to this bench now. Scratch, scratch he goes with his quarter.
Four women stand chatting, one with a respectably big dog and another with a dog so small it must be akin to a rat. The rat-dog lady is blonde, and she sports a white halter with torn jeans. See where this one is going? At least she is skinny so she doesn't have back fat hanging over that halter.
A middle aged Greek man is hauling cases of Poland Springs into his flat. Sweat pours off of his brow as he lugs in and out of his minivan.
Two runners, in better form than me, are lazily making their way to the park. I'm going to join the chorus of many of my readers and say "it's too hot to run."
Wanna be gangsters dribble basketballs down the sidewalk, while rapping a tune I don't know.
A woman asks me if I am Turkish. I do not have to lie when I say no. She then says "Greek?" Again, I do not have to lie when I say no. She says, "Oh, a Jew then." Um, I do not have to lie...but she has wandered away. It hits me. My evil eye bracelet, that has got to be it.
A Middle Eastern man squats while lazily puffing on a cheap cigar. He eventually eases himself onto the stoop.
A woman in beautiful Indian silk dress, of brilliant yellow and orange, yells at her child in her native tongue. She slaps his hand, he laughs. Clearly a dynamic I do not want to know.
And then there's me: an adopted Yankee in well worn Stony Brook flip flops, a wife beater, and a bohemian born again denim and cloth skirt. My auburn locks flip in the wind as I type into my phone.
The lotto ticket guy is on round six. I wish he would sit in the chair and not freakishly close to me on the bench.
As I sit outside the laundry mat, waiting on a load to wash (read that as I'm out of panties and I'm wearing the only thong I have; and why in the hell did I buy dental floss for my buttcrack in the first place!) the blowers make this corner of the street cool. So perhaps that is one point for the laundry mat. I despise doing laundry, and if I wasn't sweating September's rent and bills I would be using the fluff and fold. Yet, a rainbow of people float by giving me some distraction, all reflecting the blend of New York and particularly Queens.
There's the Spanish Dude with his lotto tickets; he's on his third trip to this bench now. Scratch, scratch he goes with his quarter.
Four women stand chatting, one with a respectably big dog and another with a dog so small it must be akin to a rat. The rat-dog lady is blonde, and she sports a white halter with torn jeans. See where this one is going? At least she is skinny so she doesn't have back fat hanging over that halter.
A middle aged Greek man is hauling cases of Poland Springs into his flat. Sweat pours off of his brow as he lugs in and out of his minivan.
Two runners, in better form than me, are lazily making their way to the park. I'm going to join the chorus of many of my readers and say "it's too hot to run."
Wanna be gangsters dribble basketballs down the sidewalk, while rapping a tune I don't know.
A woman asks me if I am Turkish. I do not have to lie when I say no. She then says "Greek?" Again, I do not have to lie when I say no. She says, "Oh, a Jew then." Um, I do not have to lie...but she has wandered away. It hits me. My evil eye bracelet, that has got to be it.
A Middle Eastern man squats while lazily puffing on a cheap cigar. He eventually eases himself onto the stoop.
A woman in beautiful Indian silk dress, of brilliant yellow and orange, yells at her child in her native tongue. She slaps his hand, he laughs. Clearly a dynamic I do not want to know.
And then there's me: an adopted Yankee in well worn Stony Brook flip flops, a wife beater, and a bohemian born again denim and cloth skirt. My auburn locks flip in the wind as I type into my phone.
The lotto ticket guy is on round six. I wish he would sit in the chair and not freakishly close to me on the bench.
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