By Sam Jarvis

It is definitely super duper neat that trash cans exist. Like, how easy is it to eat an entire bag of chips in one sitting and then throw away the evidence? It’s dope. I love it.

Then you have this garbage bag full of shit you don’t want anywhere near you anymore and you just take it out back and put it into a bin! Suddenly the packaging to every item you’ve bought on Amazon is its own Russian nesting doll of grossness, tucked away neatly in a bag, in a bin.

As if by magic, that bin gets dumped into a truck and whisked far, far away from your home, never to be seen or thought of again. But here’s where things get fuckin’ weird. Trash doesn’t disappear. We somehow decided to dig GIANT FUCKING HOLES in the ground to put it all in. Like literally we think it somehow leaves this Earth when in reality we just threw some god damn dirt on top of it and called it a day.

Some people light that shit on fire which I get, sounds tight. But then your apple juice-addicted child is breathing in air made of your toenail clippings. It’s like, not that chill for the environment or your bod.

This isn’t some crazy hippie way of telling you to reduce your waste. I don’t give a shit about your waste. I am just a person, high on marijuana, thinking about how FUCKING NUTS IT IS that we think trash vanishes when really it’s buried in mass graves of decomposing broccoli stems somewhere out in Bumblefuck, Illinois.

If that is upsetting to you don’t worry, it is also upsetting to me. AND I HAVEN’T EVEN GOTTEN TO THE PART ABOUT THE DOLPHINS. I have zero facts to back this up, but I’m pretty sure the weird plastic you’re too fucking lazy to cut into tiny shreds is suffocating like, a shit ton of dolphins.

I don’t have a solution. If I did, I wouldn’t be sitting here in a training bra wondering if I have enough money to buy a bottle of rosé and still retire. And I’m not going to have a solution, because my brain is too stupid. But there’s gotta be some sixth grader out in the world, at this very second, figuring it out. I know there is. So Little Sarah Miller, or whatever your name may be, please put the pedal to the metal so I can get high in peace without worrying about all the chip bags and toenail clippings and dolphins and GIANT HOLES OF TRASH IN THE GROUND.


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