Paper
So I’m cleaning my room and there’s so much paper. Who needs this much paper? I like to think that I am environmentally-conscious which is why I cancelled the delivery of the Yellow and White Pages to our doorstep. I wonder if this means that people who work on the Yellow and White Pages will lose their jobs, or maybe they’ll just get ‘shifted to online’. Which is code for ‘got boned’.
Anyway, so much paper and I really honestly just wanted to pitch everything in my room out the fucking window. What the hell do I need the readings from my public policy class last semester sitting in this pile on my desk for? Will I read them? Maybe. Will I really read them? No.
So I’m tearing up and throwing these bits of paper into this enormous cardboard bag that I got from the Swedish homewares supply store back when I thought that the world would be still for a second if I stacked my receipts in Swedish pastel-coloured boxes. It wasn’t still, and now I have a stack of Swedish pastel-coloured boxes on my bedroom floor. They’re sitting next to these other two Swedish boxes that look like roof thatching, from back when I thought that dusting off and alphabetising my CD collection would make the world sit still for a minute. It didn’t and now I have these boxes sitting on my bedroom floor. On top of those boxes are those plastic money bags that banks use. They’re full of shrapnel that sat in a jar in my wardrobe for about a year and a half. Loose change and bar tips that made my wallet fat.
There’s something really sad about those bags of change.
I find these passport photos in a paper frame on my desk and they’re dusty. I think I was too bleached out for the authorities to use them, so I rip them into four or five pieces. For a second before I throw them in the Swedish homewares bag, I think that I should tape them back together.
It’s a stupid idea. What am I, in fucking Amelie? So I throw them out and there’s still so much shit in my room.
I’m not drunk, by the way.