Trash Talk

I hate trash. Hate. It.

I am totally OCD about it.

If I am holding a perfectly clean unfolded sheet of paper it is just a sheet of paper. If that same piece of paper is thrown into the trash then it is trash. It doesn't matter if the paper didn't touch any other trash or if the trash has been taken out and the trash bag is totally clean. It is trash. I won't touch it. I'll go pay for a new piece of paper first.

I don't even like to touch trash cans. You know, because the trash is touching them. It doesn't matter that the trash is on the inside and I'm touching the outside. I'm totally disgusted by it.

If I have to touch a trash can, or worse, trash, I can feel the lingering touch of the trash on my hand until I wash it. Until I wash it, everything else I touch has become contaminated and must also be washed. Seriously. I wouldn't make this shit up.

I say all of this in preface so that you can understand just how much *I hate it* that my neighbor, who we will call BM (ironically also the initials of my poo), puts his garbage on my lawn for the trashmen to take twice a week. Why does the man think this is ok? *I have *no* idea*. None.

I've thought of saying things along the lines of, "BM, would you mind putting your trash on the other side of your driveway in the future. On our lawn it prevents the sprinkler system from working properly." Or, "BM, I'm just going to move your trash over on to your lawn so Preston can mow ours." But Preston has forbidden it.

However, I *cannot* abide by this man's trash on my lawn. Cannot. Stand. It.

I cannot stand it to the extent that I have resorted to moving his trash over on to his lawn. *Before my run*. That's right. I ran 2.1 miles this morning thinking about BM's trash can's lingering touch/contamination on my hand.