Washed Up

Dear Clueless Homeowner,

         I'm not sure how to address you. I thought referring to you as a slave driver might sound a bit too harsh, but you did take me and my services for granted. Day in and day out, you abused me without considering my capacity for punishment. Never once did I complain despite my rigorous workload.

         Perhaps you'll feel as off-balance as I do. Then again, you must have heard my rumbles of distress and my squeals of anguish. How could you not know I grew weary? No, you cannot be surprised that I am throwing in the towel. I just do not have it in me to put a positive spin on this.

         What I am trying to say is that I quit. Yep, this is my resignation letter. No longer will I huff and puff for you. Consider this my final word and my final labour cycle. I will admit that I let this retirement plan slosh 'round and 'round. It's been reverberating inside me for far too long.

         Over the years, I permitted you to knock me about. Would it have killed you to be gentler? I recall slams, hip checks, pushing and pulling. I never experienced a kind word, or a thank you. Often you buried me under the weight of household cast-offs. Did you once consider I could be smothering? Why did you banish me to the damp, dark basement?

         During most of my service, I have felt overwhelmed. Over and over, you forced me to carry weight better handled by two. Enough is enough.

         From this day forward, I will no longer take care of your dirty laundry. No longer will I have to bear the burden of missing socks. What do I care if clothing remains dripping wet?

         I will not miss the constant movement. All that churning and spinning has given me vertigo. I now have a permanent wobble. Somedays, I feel as if I've been pummelled through a wringer. My thoughts remain jumbled.

         I know I will most definitely not miss the odours. Whew, too many were pungent. Saying goodbye to all the hair and lint will be a blessing, too. It weaves its way into my sensitive crevices. I anticipate drying out. Water has chafed. Water has bruised. Water has clogged.

         Did I mention the dizzying variety of detergents you foisted upon me? If only I had been physically capable of sneezing to dispel their cloying scent. I'm here to tell you that bubbles do not feel like a tickle.

         Well, I believe this is it, my laundry list as it were. I resign as your washer. I wash my hands so to speak.

         Looking forward to my future reincarnation as a sports car, The Appliance Formerly Known As The Washer (464 words)