Just Garbage
Spring cleaning never gets easy. Sometimes you find that, year by year, one accumulates an impressionable amount of waste. This year was no different than the rest. In my hands was a trash bag, full and hefty with dusty displeasure. Even so, I felt the need to double-check the contents, otherwise I wouldn't be able to sleep at night knowing I might've thrown out an antique.
The first object I found was a pair of sunglasses. I had gifted them to an ex-girlfriend a while back. She always wore shades, so I figured they were an appropriate present. Only when she broke up with me did she explain that wearing them was the best way to avoid eye contact with me.
Beneath the glasses was a lead pencil, snapped in two. I had gotten into an argument with my father about how I would make a living. "You're 19 now," he'd say, "Time to get off your ass." I got so infuriated with him for not understanding and I crushed this pencil in between my fingers. He left it at that and the topic never came up again. I had a bruise on my palm for a week afterward.
I dug further into the bag, feeling around for anything out of the ordinary, and felt a small coin on my fingertips. I didn't have to take it out to know what it was - my first medal. I swam a lot as a kid. I would always hear my coach's words, "This boy's a damn natural," but it didn't matter. Getting your leg busted is the surest way of ending a dream like that. A torn ligament is a torn dream. It wasn't worth keeping.
I heard a squeaking sound as I ruffled through the bag, and out came a small, colorful ball. It was Dino's favorite toy. She would chew on that thing for hours. My dad would get pissed and tell me to take it from her when it became too obnoxious. I used to think it was soothing. It made me feel at ease knowing she was happy. The worst part about growing up with a dog is that you outlive them. She got sick when I was 15. I got home to a large labrador that couldn't stand on her own feet. There was no more squeaking after that.
Along the side of the trash bag was my old notebook from high school. Flipping through the pages, I found numerous illustrations I had made during my worst classes. There was one I was really fond of. It was an eyeball with the letter "I" as the pupil. I thought it looked cool. My science teacher wasn't as impressed. That might have been why I flunked that class.
The remaining items were too beaten up or destroyed to bother looking at. It stunk of stale paper and plastic. I was more surprised that I had so much junk packed under my bed to begin with. It felt great looking at an empty room, but the process was just exhausting. When it's all said and done, the waste just piles up again anyway. It makes me wonder why I even bother cleaning. Maybe it would be better if I just rolled in the filth for a little while.
The first object I found was a pair of sunglasses. I had gifted them to an ex-girlfriend a while back. She always wore shades, so I figured they were an appropriate present. Only when she broke up with me did she explain that wearing them was the best way to avoid eye contact with me.
Beneath the glasses was a lead pencil, snapped in two. I had gotten into an argument with my father about how I would make a living. "You're 19 now," he'd say, "Time to get off your ass." I got so infuriated with him for not understanding and I crushed this pencil in between my fingers. He left it at that and the topic never came up again. I had a bruise on my palm for a week afterward.
I dug further into the bag, feeling around for anything out of the ordinary, and felt a small coin on my fingertips. I didn't have to take it out to know what it was - my first medal. I swam a lot as a kid. I would always hear my coach's words, "This boy's a damn natural," but it didn't matter. Getting your leg busted is the surest way of ending a dream like that. A torn ligament is a torn dream. It wasn't worth keeping.
I heard a squeaking sound as I ruffled through the bag, and out came a small, colorful ball. It was Dino's favorite toy. She would chew on that thing for hours. My dad would get pissed and tell me to take it from her when it became too obnoxious. I used to think it was soothing. It made me feel at ease knowing she was happy. The worst part about growing up with a dog is that you outlive them. She got sick when I was 15. I got home to a large labrador that couldn't stand on her own feet. There was no more squeaking after that.
Along the side of the trash bag was my old notebook from high school. Flipping through the pages, I found numerous illustrations I had made during my worst classes. There was one I was really fond of. It was an eyeball with the letter "I" as the pupil. I thought it looked cool. My science teacher wasn't as impressed. That might have been why I flunked that class.
The remaining items were too beaten up or destroyed to bother looking at. It stunk of stale paper and plastic. I was more surprised that I had so much junk packed under my bed to begin with. It felt great looking at an empty room, but the process was just exhausting. When it's all said and done, the waste just piles up again anyway. It makes me wonder why I even bother cleaning. Maybe it would be better if I just rolled in the filth for a little while.
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