It’s the trash. It’s always been the trash. Think about it. Every day we consume and it all goes through the flat. Food containers, old underwear, chicken bones, endless tissue paper, everything we do produces waste. Disposable income only means that you keep disposing your life through your paper, plastic, glass, organic and unrecyclable rubbish bins until nothing remains of you but a husk, which of course must go through the system too. Don’t you ever feel a tingle of runaway satisfaction when the black bag has finally filled to the brim and you have to change it? It’s not just your OCD. It’s the deep knowledge that you are facilitating the truest expression of the all-powerful law of thermodynamics: no energy shall go to waste, only transform. Mass consumerism is a religion of transubstantiation by degrees, and the flat is the necessary house of worship where communion shall take place.
I take care to fill up all my trashcans at least once a day, every scrap in the right bin. My girlfriend thinks I’m crazy. But I delight at the feel of sturdy trash bag nylon. It too shall one day return to its original condition. When the trash god awakens, its mass at long last exceeding that of the waste-to-be, the heat death of the universe incarnate, eager in its unthinkingness to deliver peace.
the Budafoki amended 