You're supposed to wear shit clothes when you do laundry. That is a rule I made. All must obey it.
I went to the laundromat in these pajama pants. I didn't really give a shit. I mean, I was in the Latin American ghetto afterall. I looked far more sophisticated and put together than most of them. All did not go as planned on the laundry part.
While my clothes were washing, my clothes did not appear to be becoming sudsy. I am unsure if that made sense grammatically. I am unsure if I really care either. Never mind. I definitely don't care.
I need to watch episodes one and two of Skins Season Six. First-world problems.
Anyway. A pipe burst. Or some shit. I think my clothes were clean. There were no stains! They smelled nice. There were two, three inches of water. But I had to get the fuck out of there to dry them. So I went to another laundromat in town to dry them.
Why is this relevant or related you may ask? Because both had equal qualities. Small Hispanic children running around screaming, crying, tripping, falling, being annoying. Some came a little too close to me which made me fill with horror. Not because of their race, but rather because they looked uncleanly and not well taken care of. 'Tis to be expected with parents allowing them to run berserk in a public establishment.
I prefer nature over nurture, however. I could read at the age of three or four while my...'challenged' classmates stuttered and stumbled over simple words like "and" and "the." These were also Hispanics. I am Hispanic and I can cry if I want to. I mean, say that if I want to. And don't get me started on them/us preferring to be called Latinos now. That's a load of old shit and plain silly.
HE SHOOTS. HE SCORES.
I didn't choose to not be a moron, but I would if I had a choice.
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