I don’t know about you, but wherever I’m living, there’s usually one trash can that rarely gets emptied. And when you finally spill the contents into some bag, you discover this strata of memories from your personal timeline, right?
Like this fluorescent-green spoon for instance. It has a face, boobs, pubic hair and a necklace (because she’s obviously very stylish) drawn on with purple marker. Um, no idea where it’s from. I know I made it, but for the life of me can’t remember why. Wait — …wedding…bored…drunk…substitute table friend…
I fished the spoon out of this tall, landfill-like garbage can in my bedroom which takes months to fill up, so I avoid throwing rotty-smelly things in there like banana peels. Though I have tossed used condoms in there, and maybe that’s equally as gross.
I love my garbage can. I snagged it from an apartment a friend of mine was moving out of, the floor was blanketed with stuff people had left behind, a Free Stuff Free For All. It was the first time I saw snowboard-weed porn. I met eyes with a naked blond locked into a board as she pulled a bong. Now isn’t that special.
My garbage tower has a removable-ashtray top, which is perfect for clipping toenails over, and then using the tray to transfer them to the trash. Right now it’s responsible for holding my mushroom lamp, some old press passes and my Alien trilogy on VHS. This can is also helpful with eye-hand coordination: When you throw something out, say from my bed for instance, you need to aim and throw on this like very precise line—not your typical arc — to get it in the hole.
Thanks garbage can, you complete me.
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