I need to do laundry. Seriously, it's becoming sentient. I walk in to my bedroom and I am startled by the size of the pile. It's spooking me now; it's casting great shadows on the wall when I turn the covers down for sleep. I wake up in the middle of the night and see it sitting there taunting me, this huge mountain of unwashed fabric.
Laundry needs to be done on a regular basis. It needs to be sorted and washed according to the instructions on the label. Failure to do so might lead to clothes shrinking, or delicates tearing, or socks not properly washed. You have to be gentle, yet firm; jeans can handle a bit of rough-and-tumble but stocking most certainly cannot. And I always read the labels. If there is any doubt, I always hang garments to dry.
Wait -- am I using laundry as a metaphor? Am I crafty enough to do such a thing?
