Adventures In Recycling

Care about the planet, you ungrateful pieces of shit.

DO threaten others with your fish skeletons and apple cores. (image: smartshanghai.com)

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.

There’s one in every crowd. (image: Terry Whittaker/FLPA)