Week 2: The Washing Machine's Lament


Type of writing:
Diary from a washing machine's perspective.

How long did it take to write? 
1 hour.





April 5th, 2017

I’ve just moved into my new gaff. Have a good view. I can see all the way down the hallway to the front door. A perfect vantage for seeing all the comings and goings. It seems to be just a couple, which is a relief. They put me through my first cycle; I’ll be honest I felt nauseous afterwards. Like a head injury in a cartoon, a halo of birds encircled me. I’ll count my blessings though. The boys in the factory said, ‘The fewer the people you live with the better.’ I live with two - seems like a decent result.

April 20th, 2017

Been here a little bit now. Beginning to see the lay of the land. Both seem to be schoolteachers. The exercise books on the worktop a dead giveaway. Him wearing suits is good for me. It means his washing is subcontracted out to my mates down at the cleaners. It pays to have limitations. I mean, he would know: he’s useless at DIY - his dad and her dad come and do it all. Whilst they’re doing the graft, he’s feigning interest and drinking tea. When it comes to wanting out of work, it appears I’m just like my master.

As for her, she’s no bother. Sure, she goes through more clothes than him. (He seems fine sitting in his own stink.) But there’s nothing there to cause me a headache. A delicate wash is -well - delicate. No, speed cycle there. Less the thrust of a rocket launch, more the finesse of a moon landing. Bras and briefs jete and pirouette around my head, movimg in balletic rhyme. Like that paper bag in American Beauty, I imagine.

Yes, I think I’m going to be alright with these two. With his laundry trips to the big boys and her smalls, I’ve done pretty well. I worried so much when I was in that warehouse. The banter from the other lads was just a front: we were all scared about what we were walking into. Turns out I had nothing to fear. Everything has worked out fine and dandy.

May 12th, 2020

What the fuck is that!

May 13th, 2020

I’m not normally used on Wednesdays.

May 14th, 2020

I’m not normally used on Thursdays.

May 15th, 2020

I’m not normally used on Fridays.

May 16th, 2020

Somebody make it stop!

May 22nd, 2020

 I don’t know if I can go on. My head is fried. My neck is sweat. I’m overheated, under-appreciated. How can something so small turn my world upside down? Why must it go through more costume changes than a pop concert? What's with these hot washes? Why must they treat me like an oven and cook my brain dry? Can’t they stop this thing from vomiting over itself? Other than New Year, they seemed to have managed it; why can’t this feral creature do the same?

I can't go on.

May 23rd, 2020

Today, I’ve been on three times. It’s not even 11 o’clock. This is my final diary entry. Tomorrow, I will join the washing machines in the sky. I used to have a life. Free time to sit, to muse, to wonder. Now, I'm merely a plaything for THAT THING. This is not a diary; it’s a letter of resignation. I quit the job; I quit the earth. Tomorrow, you will find me a grave man.

Goodbye forever. 

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