Crud Collecting

Today I think I will talk about trash.

For whatever reason, I'm sitting here on my bedroom floor, in front of my little heater, having utterly failed to motivate myself to get showered and dressed yet and as I glance around this room of mine that contains all that is me, I find it a little self-righteous of life to have so neatly and metaphorically planted so much trash everywhere. Since I have never lived where I have had an entire space of my own, always being allocated only a bedroom amidst shared living space, I have always thought that my room was just an analogy of my life, or at least my head. I live in my room, I live in my see how it works.

And now my room is full of trash.

Most of it is junk food wrappers. And soda cans. A lot of it is packaging and by that I mean the five thousand layers that things come in, including that layer of impenetrable plastic that never fails to slice open your finger after its refused to cooperate with the pair of scissors you're trying to plunge into it. I'm still waiting for the day where they indivdiually wrap face tissues. You know it's coming.

What annoys me most about this trash is that I swear I clean up mountains of it daily and though I have a sweet tooth, I can't fathom that I get through enough food for it to be multiplying at this rate. It's clearly procreating in my sleep, which is oddly how I feel about my sense of misanthropic despair at times. I go to bed and when I wake up, more crud. More crud on my floor, more crud in my head... My life is full of crud!

Which is not to say my life sucks. I'm lucky, just lazy, and I constantly try to keep my head far enough above water so that I can actually start being productive because I'm infused with a sense of guilt that there is absolutely nothing wrong with my life and countless millions out there would probably kill for it. Fight to the death with sporks kind of dedication. I actually kind of like my life sometimes but chemicals will be chemicals.

And children will be children.

A few weeks ago now, Grace went around with my little point-and-shoot camera taking photos of just about everything. (I should probably add at this point that I live with my cousins and their two children. Grace is 4, Cordelia is 1. They're my pseudo-children, the ones I substitute into stories because I don't have my own.) At any rate, I told her she could take photos of whatever she liked since I figured a 4-year-old is probably only likely to take shots of the floor, walls and ceiling if she manages to hit the right button at all.

She took a photo of my trash.

At some point, I will find it and upload it because I passed on all her photos from that day, including the huge closeup of my butt, onto her mother but let me just tell you that this was perfectly in focus and framed in such a way as to look decently artistic. A 4-year-old made my trash look good.

Now there's an analogy I can live with.


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