Today, I strapped a flashlight to my head and, fiercely clutching a nine-iron, spelunked my way into the inner recesses of my closet. Strange chitterings and a high-pitched, strangled ululation broke out from the canopy high overhead as, brushing away a creeper, I arrived at a clearing. The moldering remains of my underwear lay in the center, defiled and torn by passing lemurs and macaques.
As I picked them up, I disturbed a huge centipede hiding within. It skittered a few feet away and, arching its back like a cobra, hissed evilly and resentfully at me, before undulating away into the underbrush.
I decided that the only way these things could be purified was through fire. Luckily, I happened to have an old bottle of 99% isopropyl on hand. A few minutes later, a jolly blue flame was flickering in my bathtub, and the blackening garment within was on the road to redemption. Meanwhile, the rest of my clothes were chugging away steadily in an utterly boringly bourgeois washing machine.
I wish I could burn all my clothes. I'm sure I'm not the only one. But that time may never come, and I will bear it stoically.
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