I might write a novel

although I think Josh and Becca are probably the only people still reading, and they already know this. My first idea was to write about myself in the third person and change names. I've since decided that's a bad idea since my life's not that interesting. But before I decided that, to practice ,I wrote two single-spaced pages about my boring trip to the laundry mat. ,Names have been changed to protect no one.

My laundry novella

Lara lugged her blue laundry bag to the laundry mat two blocks from her house. “Go to Bubbles,” her landlord told her her first day in San Francisco. So she did. When she walked in, she realized she forgot her detergent. Awesome, she thought sarcastically, since it's possible to think sarcastically. Before walking home she comparison-shopped at the laundry mat across the street. It was slightly more expensive. Also, all of the consumers at the second laundry mat was Asian, where as at the first everyone was white. This made her more confident in her choice, and that fact embarassed her. When she returned to the first laundry mat she learned that the owner was Asian, a fact that pleased her and she felt made up for her racism of two minutes earlier.

“You're always working,” a white (obviously) customer, told the owner, a small man of Asian descent, though we've already established this fact. “Making lots of money.”
“No, no money,” he replied.

Lara emptied her laundry into the washers, wondering if this was true. Was he really a wealthy entrepreneur? Were a chain of Bubbles laundry mats already gracing the Bay area? Or maybe the owner had a nagging, cold wife he wanted to escape. Or maybe worse, he didn't have a wife. He moved to this country in the hopes of meeting a nice woman but all the nice women didn't want him. Or maybe he was just a hard worker.

Thinking all of this, instead she only asked him how long the washers take. “Thirty minutes,” he replied. Not wanting to go back to the apartment she walked to the gelato place. This will be my dinner, she decided, taking the non-fat banana something. And it was. She ate it in Washington Square Park (the one in San Francisco, not in her native New York), surrounded by little old Chinese women, leashless dogs and cliques of homeless people.

Lara returned to switch her clothes to the dryers. Thirty minutes later, as she started to unload, she phone rang. She ran to her bag. Except the phone was in her pocket. It was her friend Meg. She called Meg back. She didn't get so much as a hi out when a man looked like he wanted to talk to her. “Excuse me?” he said, "You have my laundry bag." Awesome. Lara hung up on Meg and apologized to the man, showing him the identical bags they posessed.

She called Meg back, laughing, telling her what happened. Meg was the perfect person to have on the other end, since she did the same sort of thing eight times a day. She also wanted this man, who she will never see again who couldn't have cared less about this minor mix-up, to understand that she could laugh about this.