Trashcan

The brain can only hold so much information. It’s like a trashcan can only be so full and no fuller or the lid won’t close and garbage will spill out onto the driveway, and then you’ll have to go out in your pajama pants on Friday morning to pick it all up before the neighbors wake and the truck comes to take it all away.

It occurs to me that my brain is less like a trashcan than I thought. Trashcans are emptied by men with work gloves driving around in large trucks. Brains are emptied by women in tight pants who bring alcohol on small trays. But both happen every Friday, so maybe they are pretty much the same.

But an analog is never perfect, even a phonograph is best loved for it’s flaws. I left the can on the street and went back inside. I hate putting out the trash like that. It’s too much like giving up. If my brain was like a trashcan, I’d wait for someone to come and take away the coffee grounds and stinking chicken bones of my mind; various things that can’t be composted into something more useful. Some thoughts are spent after the first iteration.

It didn’t really matter. The couch was as good as the curb for me that Friday morning and coffee as good as alcohol and the rough static on channel 2 as good, really a damn sight better, than a woman in tight pants carrying a tiny tray of beverages. I waited there, my wheels to the street so I’d be easy to position behind the truck, my lid resting a few inches over the rim from the rancid contents waiting to be dumped.

-M