The washing machine

I have a pile of washing I’ve been putting off. I know It would only take a few moments. I should really be grateful for the fact that I don’t have to wash by hand, thanks to the invention of the washing machine.

Consider the washing machine. It just sits there, waiting to do chores for you. It’s only purpose is to wash things. All it does is wash, over and over again. Every week there’s going to be more washing, and that’s all it’s going to do. Wash, sit there doing nothing, wash, sit there doing nothing, wash, and so on. It’s existence is washing. It is a washing machine.

In a moment of pure clarity, I realise that the washing machine is just like me. I just wash things. I have to wash things over and over again. Every week, there is more washing. All of my life I just have to wash things. I have to wash the dishes, and the clothes, and the windows, and the car. I even have to wash myself! Everything must be washed! The washing never stops! Wash, sit there doing nothing, wash, sit there doing nothing, and so on, and so on, forever and ever. It dawns on me that I am a washing machine!

I don’t want to be a washing machine! I don’t want to be consumed by washing. Washing all the time. My life, washing. Washing being all I accomplish. So I postpone the washing, and the pile of washing grows, waiting for its chance to consume me. I keep putting it off, refusing to think of it, hoping that this will give me some freedom from my existence as a slave to my need for washing.

Except I am not a washing machine, I reassure myself. I use the washing machine. I am the master of the washing! And in a moment of inspiration and brilliance, I do all of my washing and conquer it. Everything is clean and washed. I rose above the washing machine.

The end.