A photo essay:

So, I hate doing laundry. Hate. It. With a passion. There are many reasons I hate doing laundry, which include the carrying, the sorting, the folding and the putting away. Wait, isn’t that everything that is involved in doing laundry? Oh yeah, that’s right. I hate it all.

I am not proud to admit this, but we kind of let the pile grow a little too long. Or rather, a little too high. So I think to myself, wouldn’t it be easier to carry if I put it in the upright basket?

Oh, God. I think it just multiplied. Or tripled. Is that seriously all our laundry? Kill me now.

You might think that would be the worst of it. But you would think wrong. Because when your house was built in 1900, the luxury of a laundry room does not exist. Oh no. The washer and dryer? They’re in the basement. How do you get to the basement? You go outside. And open the bulkhead and walk down the most treacherous stairs ever carrying the above monstrosity.
OK. Made it down without falling or bruising my shin. Perhaps the task will look easier once I’ve sorted the clothes.

No. It does not. And yes, I have literally just aired my dirty laundry in front of the world.
(Hours later) This is all that remains of my entire afternoon of laundry. And I know where Michael’s t-shirts go. I just can’t bring myself to deal with one more piece of laundry.
Ugh. That was awful. Have I mentioned I hate doing laundry?