A house of plastic

I don't consider my house to be a house of plastic; I don't apply that metaphor to it. But I consider it the image of something that could be.

I saw a clear, plastic bag full of varied plastics that had been assembled by general entropic use and readied, tied up, for recycling. I imagined a scene where we had to bury the plastics ourselves in our own backyard, for whatever reason. Difficult to imagine. Then I imagined if we kept them in our own house to see the effect of our own recycling. I imagined a whole room, a whole hallway, a whole house of recyclables.

How many houses of that have we created, since I was born?

In a way, we are a world of throwing out. We spit, snot, sneeze each day (well, I wouldn't want to try going a whole day without doing any of the three) and use the toilet, and aside from the bodily wastes we get ideas out of the way, get stress out of the way by sleeping and think about chores, and so on. It goes on, of course, and of course it doesn't help that I've got so much to do right now, like emailing 5 people, no, 6, and seeing my advisor and all of that stuff. But it's time to throw in. Myself. Into this mess, instead of seeing it all go to waste.

I always had trouble understanding why in laser tag you get rewarded for bad offense way more than for good defense, when I was a kid at least. But of course it wouldn't be exciting otherwise.

And I've drifted away from the house of plastic, right? No, no matter what I do, I'm still going to be throwing out a bajillion things a day, so I might as well clear these things too, even if I don't manage to sink the shot into the garbage bin perfectly.

As I didn't on this freewrite, really. But somewhere you have to end things.