I'm still having to use the Eye Drops of Depression, and even though another beer would taste really good, I'd better stop at one because any more central nervous system depressants will have me sobbing in a heap on the floor over the latest horrific happening. For "horrific happening", read "screwing up a homework problem" or some other event that wouldn't make a dent in the affect of a rational person.
Instead of reducing myself to tears, I decide to take out the trash and recycling, these being things I can accomplish with a comforting level of competence. Besides, my kitchen wastebasket is full. The wastebasket duly emptied and relined with a clean plastic bag, I move on to the recycling. When I remove the paper bag of recyclables from the cupboard, it clinks alarmingly and I am distressed to find that it contains a large number of beer bottles and a single soup can.
In my own defense, I shall point out that I don't take out my recycling very often (everything gets rinsed out so it doesn't smell nasty) and this is about a month's worth of bottles, and the number of bottles is less than twelve. Really. I swear! But still, I am one who walks by other people's recycling bins and thinks snooty, judgmental thoughts about their thirty cans emblazoned with the name of a yucky cheap beer. And now I have become the person whose recycling I scorn, except that I drink better beer.
250 words | April 7, 2004 08:20 PM | Real true story