Turning Point

When I start tinkering around with a semi-active(or partially dead?) blog's colours, I can sort of tell that sebenarnya I takde kerja, ni. Well, this wasn't really tinkering. This was just a matter of bleaching all colour and making everything black and white. 2 points for kesenangan untuk dibaca.

The other day I realized I was turning 23 this year. Which means:

a) Jimmy Eat World's song, 23, finally applies to me.

c) I'm practically 25. Well, I'll be damned. It seems like age progression is continuous disbelief over your real age. I see these kids (kids?) who were born in 1994 or 1995 and for some reason I automatically think in my head that they're around 10 or 11, 1994 doesn't seem that long ago, but then I realize it's 2011 and they're 17 or 16, and I'm 23! 23! 25! 30!

***

I know this is one of those mundane domestic mishaps that doesn't need to be shared, but I let my guard down to the monster that is my washing machine and it decided to gnaw off the hooks of my favourite sports bra. Shame on me for being too lazy to hand-wash it and just chucking it into the known terminator-of-delicate-clothing, but seriously. Seriously?

Let me tell you about this washing machine. It's been here since my first year, and I have no idea how old it actually is (I would cut it through the middle and count the rings like I would a tree, but then I wouldn't have a washing machine). It's a front-loader, and it has analog dials on the front. It's loud and clunky, and spasms alarmingly when it goes into spin mode.

It eats bra hooks. Out of spite, I bet.

Monster that this machine is, it serviced our laundry needs adequately, with the peculiar exception that when I set the dial to cold wash, the clothes that came out of it were warm.

Then, in my final semester, the monster decided it had had enough. It went crazy, and refused to run on normal settings, or would start and then stop halfway, and generally was a pain in the ass. Especially when it was assignment/exam season and I didn't have time to worry about not having clean clothes. Boy. That wasn't a fun time. At one point I found myself sitting on the floor, leaning against the monster, crooning Padi's Menanti Sebuah Jawaban to it, in some bizarre, desperate belief that singing jiwang, Indonesian songs to a whacked out washing machine would somehow convince it to work properly.

Flash forward to now, and we're still stuck with this machine (long story). It works, in a way, but obviously is still eats bra hooks. Spiteful thing. Maybe spanish songs next time? Or mumbly french ones. Maybe it's an European washing machine.