I have two motivations for writing this. First, it occurs to me that the fine people who collect my trash on Tuesday mornings must occasionally scratch their head about what they find. Second, I've talked about publishing a short anthology of both fiction and non-fiction. I wanted to let you, dear readers, know that I haven't given up writing. I've been busy trying to come up with content for you. Here's a taste of what I mean to include:
To my caring friends and neighbors at the City Sanitation Department,
It’s
two days after collection day, and I feel like I owe you an
explanation. Certainly, I can understand your, at best, curiosity, and
at worst, worry over the contents of my most recent leavings on the
curb.
First
of all, the 7 empty bottles of wine and three 6 packs of craft beer
were the result of several evenings spent over dinner with my neighbors.
They cooked, I provided the terrible cable TV and the beverages. It
just so happened that all of the dead soldiers ended up in my trash.
You
know, that might not have been the best phrasing. My apologies. But
really, the bloated and wrinkled copy of Sex Killers that was in the
same bag? That got that way as I was reading it in the tub. I had dye
on my head, sitting in a bubble bath reading while I was waiting for
the color to process. My boyfriend, who I didn’t know was home at the
time, came around the corner to ask me something and scared me. I
dropped the book into the water and splashed around a bit trying to
retrieve it. The dye on my head must have run more than I thought,
because the cover ended up with a big, red blob of dye on it. Not being
able to salvage the book, I threw it away.
The
bandages have a perfectly reasonable explanation too. I bought a new
curling iron over the weekend, and I was having a hard time getting that
stupid clamshell plastic to open. I took that broken pair of scissors
and (now) bent carving knife to it in a fit of frustration. (Ask my
neighbors, they heard the cussing three units away.) I finally got it
open, but not before I sliced my thumb pretty badly. I didn’t want to
go to the ER, so I just mopped up the blood with the paper towels and
threw a bandage on it. Ok, I threw like 5 bandages on it before I
finally decided that I should suck it up and go to the doctor. I know
it’s hard to tell that it was over the course of three days, but I swear
it was.
As
far as the copious amount of white powder in the trash? Again,
perfectly rational explanation. I just bought a warehouse club
membership and went a little goofy with my newfound bulk buying power.
I bought an enormous box of cornstarch. I went to go make gravy from
the pan drippings of the roast I made for dinner and dropped the whole
damn container on the kitchen floor. You see, I had put it away in one
of the cupboards that was over my head, and was too lazy to get the step
stool. It slipped out of my hands when I was reaching up on tiptoe.
Once the clouds of powder cleared, I swept it up and put it all in the
trash.
The balloons were leftover from my niece’s birthday party. Blow one up. You’ll see they all say “Look who’s 3”.
I
have no excuse for the discarded packaging for the “jackhammer 4000
motorized fucking machine”. That’s EXACTLY what it looks like. In my
defense, a girl has needs, and it was cheaper and safer than an awful
lot of terrible first dates. Judge me if you will, but I did actually
make that purchase (and can’t express how glad i am that I did).
While
I really appreciate your concern and vigilance, I don’t really want to
explain to my employer why my name ended up in front of a judge for a
suspicion of illicit activities warrant. The “wellness check” by the
local beat cop was embarrassing enough. Also, I don’t know which of you
did it, but the “Y’all need Jesus” pamphlet stuck in my door was a nice
touch. I think I will have to respectfully decline the invitation on
the grounds that the slogan for this house of worship is “we be
churchin’!”. It wouldn’t be the entrance into a house of God that gave
me hives, it would be the blatant abuse of the English language. God
forbid you find a jumbo size bottle of Benadryl in my garbage. . .
Your well adjusted if not slightly accident prone customer,
Ephemily
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