One of the nicest things about having your own house is the washer and dryer. I'm not kidding. I love my washer and dryer. I love them so much that I've decided to name them Batman and Robin, and I will send them Christmas cards, which are two completely unrelated facts but should still fully demonstrate how much me likey the fact that they are all mine.
See, I was once the victim of a panty bandit.
It was my freshman year of college, and I was living in the honors dorm, because I am of course a big geek (see the names of my washer and dryer above if there was any question of that). And the laundry was all the way on the top floor. But the cute boys were on the fourth floor where I lived, hanging around in the hallway, walking on their hands and eating dog biscuits. I kid you not. So there was no way that I was going to do something like sit upstairs with my laundry and STUDY. No, I was going to ignore the "Do not leave your laundry unattended" signs. Instead, I sat in the hall outside my door, ate dog biscuits, and flirted like the world was about to end.
Unfortunately, when I went upstairs to pick up my laundry after all the flirting and dog biscuit consumption, I discovered a disturbing thing. Someone went through all three of my loads and picked out all of the cute undies and bras. The only ones that were left were the back of the drawer ones that you do not wear when you are planning to eat dog biscuits and flirt like the world is about to end.
Now, on one hand you might think that it could be a lot worse. Better to have your panties filched than your stereo equipment or something expensive like that. But there are problems with this that you may not have thought of. First, there is the sudden underwear shortage that must be dealt with, which is difficult to do when it's 10:00 at night and you're just discovering that a thief has made off with your unmentionables.
Then, there's the question of reporting. Because I do believe that people ought to report crime to the police. We can't expect them to catch bad guys if they don't even know they exist, right? But then, there's the matter of describing the missing material, and something about verbally describing all of my panties to a bunch of strangers just doesn't work for me.
And lastly, there's the curiosity factor. Because honestly? For the next week or so, every time someone talked to me? I was wondering if they had my panties in their pocket. Which was really distracting, to say the least. I'm sure everyone thought I was a horrible conversationalist, which is probably why nothing ever came of my eating dog biscuits and flirting like the world was going to end.