Wow. Two posts in a month. That's like a new record or something...

Two 60-hour work-weeks followed by two 90-hour ones'll do that to ya.

Living at the office isn’t so bad, especially since I have no real life to speak of. It was the inability to do laundry for two weeks that really bugged me. Sure you can wear pants and shirts a couple times before things get horrible, but, unfortunately, that’s not the case with underwear. Only at my apartment for 7 hours a day, six of that sleeping (if I was lucky) there was zero time to visit my building’s washing machine. Each morning I would wake to find the supply of clean underwear rapidly dwindling.

As with all clear-headed bachelors, I have an underwear prioritizing scheme that constantly reminds me when laundry day is near. First worn are the favorites, the single color boxers made of a pleasant fabric. Then come the patterned ones with cheaper cloth. When you get to the ill-fitting holiday or cartoon-themed boxers, with the schlong-holes in the front for your package to slide uncomfortably out of all day, you know you really need to put a load in the machine.

The process is beautiful, and has never failed me before. However, even the most well developed or robust systems have their limits, and my work schedule took me well outside acceptable tolerances.

There is one last, final, failsafe in my system, that serves as an emergency stopgap and reminder that the laundry needs doing. I speak of the much-hated tighty-whitey, a piece of apparel that no man of substance wears of his own volition. I have one pair that I keep for just such emergences, a final reminder to DO THE GODDAMN LAUNDRY. Their oppressive constraints and nad-crushing fabric go against everything good-hearted people around the world believe in.

I’ve had to resort to this pathetic last straw a few times before, and always I was forced by the discomfort to quickly visit that machine of detergent and fabric softener. But when I got home on Tighty-Whitey day at 2:00 AM with a 9:00 AM meeting on the other side of the lake, I had several options: 1) do an emergency load and waste another two hours, 2) go bare-assed to my meeting in the morning, or 3) commit suicide to avoid this forthcoming shame.

Having been averaging four hours of sleep for the previous week, option #1 was a non-starter. My demure Victorian inner-nature prevented any serious consideration of option #2. I mean, there are some things that just aren’t done. By process of elimination, I had come to the conclusion that honorable death was my only option.

Deciding upon hanging, I looked around for a suitable rope-like implement to do the job. I settled upon a short power cord I had sitting amidst a pile of detritus in the corner of my bedroom. This was a most fortuitous decision, since when I reached down to pick up the future noose, I found my salvation. There, sitting under some empty boxes, was a package of boxers, unopened.

This treasure would see me through the rest of this latest hell-project. No one need die a grisly death by strangulation. Or, at the very least, I need not die such a death, which is the important thing, really. I will never again think underwear a crappy Christmas present again.

There was much rejoicing.

So with that taken care of (I finally did a load last night), and now that I’ve recovered from the final 30-hour straight work session, there may actually be more bloggin’ in store. I’ve got an inspiring, life-affirming story of personal growth, spiritual exploration, and explosive diarrhea that I’m dying to share with the world. I’m sure you all will love it. Or hate it. Whatever.