Adventures In Recycling

Care about the planet, you ungrateful pieces of shit.

I’m sick of recycling. Do you hear me? Sick of it. No one else cares. No one else puts any effort into it, and I’m exhausted.

I’m the bitch following everyone around turning unused lights off with the kind of passive-aggressive flourish that takes years to refine. I’m the one staring like an insane person at the bottom of a plastic bottle, trying to find the little triangle with the number in it that tells me the exact kind of plastic it’s made out of.

Is the triangle obvious? No. Can it be easily found? Girl, please. Does it, perchance, stand out in some way from the identically colored background upon which it is stamped?

HAHAHAHA! Why should they make recycling easy?

And the numbers. Don’t get me started on the numbers. Is Tom Hanks using them as clues in the Da Vinci Code? Is Nicholas Cage solving riddles with them in National Treasure?

No one understands the numbers. They are arbitrary. They are chosen by a coked-up spider monkey in an underground bunker.

And glass. I need more guidance than “no drinking glass.” I hate to tell the recycling people this, but any glass is drinking glass if you’re drinking wine straight from the bottle.

I visit various recycling bins several times a week, because, as mentioned above, I am insane. I am the only person at my office who recycles, and everyone else’s BLATANT DISREGARD FOR THE PLANET is inexcusable. Most of my time is spent fishing cardboard boxes out of the trash where my co-workers have shoved them WITHOUT EVEN BREAKING THEM DOWN! CAN YOU IMAGINE??

I’m sorry. I need a moment.

I reside in a neighborhood that does not use curbside recycling. All we have are giant, ugly green bins that have been strategically placed literally everywhere. They have convenient labels on the front that are much, much, much too detailed for today’s reading public. No one is reading all of that. People see GIANT GARBAGE CAN and their lizard brains take over.

Needless to say, the bins are always full, just not of recyclables. I have seen car seats. I have seen shoes. I saw a big, like, scorecard of some kind? I don’t even know.

Recently, someone spray painted PLEASE READ above the labels on a bin in a particularly Mad Max part of town. Like that’s going to help. It probably just amused whoever chucked in an entire non-working big screen TV.

And the whole “Do I wash it, do I not wash it? thing. If I wash it, I’m wasting water. If I don’t wash it, then it’s just another piece of trash. I am literally trapped in a moral quandary over this.

I need professional help.

I can’t stop flashing back to an article I once read about a woman who was so fucking efficient that the sum total of her yearly, non-recycled effluvium was a piece of string and an eggshell that she had grown unnaturally attached to.

This woman makes me feel guilty.

Maybe I should just go full hippie and start pooping into a compost bin. I should make my own clothes from dryer lint. I should only eat food that I have grown myself, or hit with my car.

I’m doing this for all of us, you lazy bastards.

Legal secretary by day, insomniac by night. BA, MA. If life is a journey, I’m lost. Slackjaw, Points In Case, The Funny Times, The Haven. Twitter: @blade_funner

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