Got home from watching the NFL Draft at Hooters MOA. As I turn to go to the front door, I am confronted by something so ominous I still don't know how to process its very existence.
Right there, right in front of the master bedroom, was a green garbage plastic ... receptacle thingy. You know, when you have plastic bags of trash, and you don't have room in the house for them any more, so you take them outside? Yeah, and you put them in here. Whatever you call that thing.
I don't know what it's really called because we've never had to use them before. Any garbage we've had, as far as I can remember, was taken to The Store. There was a huge dumpster there and so they just threw it in there. We never had to worry about putting out the trash because The Store took care of it.
And so that's why seeing this huge fucking thing has knocked me for a loop. Not only is it another chore to do -- another change in the household that I will never be prepared for, let alone accept -- this is yet another goddamn sign that The Store is indeed closing. It's been on borrowed time since August, but now that we need it (or at least my parents think we need it -- I could just throw the trash somewhere in the gas station receptacle, can't I?), I come face-to-face with its impending death. And it's a loss on a dependence that worked, and one that made us unique. I felt a small sense of superiority that we didn't have to take out the trash. But now we are just like every one of our goddamn neighbors.
And I won't talk about how My Fucking Father washed my clothes, redid my bed and picked up my sister's bedroom while I was gone all day. He has nothing to do so he starts messing around with my shit? Grandmother did this and he threw her into a nursing home because of it.
I'm so depressed. My All-Time Favorite has another house party tomorrow. I called her this afternoon to tell I didn't have money for her handjob. But maybe now I should, just to get my spirits up.
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