Dear Dryer. I hate you.

Let me begin by saying I’m not the kind of person who automatically resorts to blaming others for my shortcomings. However, since this obviously isn’t my shortcoming, but a morbid plot that my laundering machinery has hatched out, I feel the need to call that bitch out.

Let me assure you that it hasn’t started all at once. She’s been sneaky about it. She started by shrinking one article then another. It was all done so casually that I even began to blame the man for a short amount of time. After all, he’s a guy’s guy and those types are notorious for being less then efficient in any domestic matters. I probably owe him an apology since it wasn’t him who shrunk two of my favorite sun dresses so it now looks like I’m purposely trying to show the world what color my thong is. Natural to think he may have had something to do with that.

However, now that overgrown piece of soon to be scrap metal is being just plain unforgiving. I went to put on my favorite pair of jean shorts last weekend, you know the kind all worn and comfy and glorious in the summertime, and she’d done it again. The damn things wouldn’t button!

I was forgiving when she shrunk my capris to the point that they now cut off the circulation to my legs. I may walk like I’m on stilts because I can’t bend my knees in my only pair of expensive rock republic jeans, but I didn’t hold it against her.

I checked in with every girls arch nemesis, the dreaded scale. And no, he’s not out to get me. He happily told me I’ve only put on two measly pounds this summer, most likely from all that South American vacation food. I’m very doubtful that all two pounds somehow managed to migrate directly to my ass.

Which leaves me with one conclusion, that harmless looking lint pot has it out for me.  With this last assault she has gone too far. I hate her. I’m calling her out. This. Means. War.

Who would you like to send hate mail too?