It is with heavy heart that I adopt my new responsibility of embedded reporter in the War on Trash. I took this role because, despite my fear, I know that someone in this city needs to get the word out; tell the people what’s really going on out here. Plus I live here.
Yesterday, as Much Music crowded the streets in a brilliant display of terrible musical taste (ohmygodohmygod!), soft-core porn, and just plain garbage, the 416/79 infantry began their tactical strike. Everyone was too busy watching Lady GaGa’s disco-stickery and highly impractical haircut to notice what was going on. Amidst the insane shrieking of pubescent teens, none but a few liquor-hardened reporters bunkered down in the CityTV newsroom took notice of the descending doom.
At midnight, war was declared.
By morning, the bandaged and patched casualties were starting to come in from the front lines:
Only later did I learn that the first salvo wasn’t fired by the other side or even by us. It was fired by a southern neighbour taking a shot at Perez Hilton. Some time in the yawningly early hours of Monday morning, trash became enemy and we got the first shot in. Thanks, America.
This is where it started; ground-zero:
Later today, I saw the first fatality of the war:
…and soon more:
The scenes are horrible, but I fear much worse and soon. And even more troubling is the new garbage bag that I installed in the kitchen today. Currently it only holds a few bits of trash, but pretty soon it will fill like all the others; swell with refuse and pride, become unruly, attack me in the middle of the night!
As the the dull shelling from my computer’s speakers draws nearer, I gather the reusables in the corner of my flat and wait. And wait. And watch. In the direction of the kitchen.
I won’t get much sleep tonight.
P.S. Congratulations to Renee for winning the Coffeetastic Giveaway! You couldn’t have chosen a worse time.