The government are reducing me.
They do this because like verminous paparazzi, they have been going through my bins and have discovered that I am single-handedly killing the planet; one groaning bin of non-recyclables at a time.
That they should deliver the new pint-sized bin today, after six weeks of me treating my body like a waste-disposal unit, is a powerful metaphor for my need to reduce my other waist. For the past week I have been eating my dinner in leggings, telling myself I’m chilling, knowing it’s because my jeans hurt.
From now on I must stop mindlessly chucking junk into the bin and into my gob. I will do it for all the children of the world who don’t want to grow up surrounded by plastic croissant containers and fag-ends and don’t want to be raised by fat sluts who eat four croissants for breakfast and smoke four between-croissant fags.
Or, I can just shift the location for gluttony to my car. I LOVE my car. My car is where my real self lives. Car-Me eats hoisin duck wraps from Tesco and drinks full-fat coke. Car-Me smokes at the wheel (NOT with kids in the car, I’m not a goddam CRIMINAL) and collects fag-ends in the swill of an old Costa coffee cup. Car-Me throws Twirl wrappers all around the interior, like shiny purple confetti. Car-Me sings louder than Beyoncé and does not cease when in standing traffic. Car-Me weeps in carparks sometimes. Car-Me catches naps oftentimes.
And from now on, Car-Me will drive around with all the non-recyclable waste that won’t fit in the new slim-line grey bin, telling myself that I will routinely deliver it to the council tip, knowing that I will let it grow as an external sign of my inability to reduce my waste.
Car-Me will drive around eating all the junk that won’t fit into the new slim-line lifestyle, telling myself if it’s not in front of Gwyneth it doesn’t count, knowing that it’s an external sign of my inability to reduce my waist.
What happens in the car stays in the car, ok?