i hate washing machines

I'm absolutely besotted with washing machines. Truly what a marvel.
What an absolute privilege it is to own a giant juddering metal beast that sits in the corner of my flat, growling like it's got a personal vendetta against me and my entire housing system. I put a simple load in. Just a few shirts. And what does it do? It screams. It bangs, it shudders, it attempts to launch itself through the wall into next door's kitchen like it's trying to escape the torment of its own existence. My neighbours must think I'm murdering and torturing a tractor. Two hours. TWO BLOODY HOURS it takes. Two hours of ominous dramatic gurgling only for me to open the door and be presented with a single, cold, sopping wet knot of clothes all tangled together in a trauma bond, reeking of betrayal and extra detergent. And where is the other sock? Oh gone. Taken. Swallowed whole into the backrooms. And let us not forget the settings. Thirty settings. Delicates, synthetics, cottons, super eco, anti allergy, quick wash that is anything but quick. Thirty lies printed on a dial that all do precisely the same thing which is absolutely nothing useful. And it has the nerve to beep at me smugly as if to say "I've finished" when it very much has NOT finished. Honestly, I couldn't adore it more. A majestic useless passive aggressive white box that holds my entire wardrobe hostage and my sanity for ransom.
My favourite little torture chamber.
Ten out of ten, would let it ruin my life and my laundry again.