You’ve been in denial for far too long. The Mt. Everest-sized heap of garbage piled up in your kitchen is just about ready to take over the room and, eventually, the entire house. Oh, you’ve crammed item after item into the mush, anything to delay the inevitable. You flattened the box of Rice Krispies. You attempted to smush the carton of milk. You delicately placed the Mama Celeste remnants at the top of the summit, but this precarious situation can no longer hold: it’s time to take out the trash.
In lieu of donning a biohazard suit, you roll up your sleeves and crouch beside the basket. Seizing the little red Ropes of Helpfulness, you try to yank the bag out of the can, but to no avail. That thing is jammed in there so tight, you may just have to retrieve a chainsaw from the garage to free it. But your very, very smart brain has a better idea: tip the basket so you can slide the bag out, instead of lifting it! What could possibly go wrong?
You tilt it ever so gingerly, and the bag finally begins to dislodge itself at roughly the same speed as a glacier. Sweaty and exhausted, you continue to struggle and pull and heave at the damn thing, until all of a sudden it finally dislodges, popping out of the can like a chicken out of a chicken cannon (you watch a lot of Mythbusters). Inordinately pleased with yourself, you tie it up (double knotted for Safety) and begin dragging it through the house, completely unaware of the foul, disgusting trail you are leaving in your wake. Once you get outside, you reach the bin and happily place the bag into its new home. But – what’s that on the side? A tear? And what’s that running down your leg??
Oh dear Lord almighty. It’s trash juice.
“Trash juice!” you begin shouting at the bag, hopping away as if it had suddenly exploded into a fiery ball of spiders. Now jumping around and shrieking “Ew ew ew ew ew” but not actually doing anything to clean up this disaster, you flee into the house, whereupon you discover only more slimy goo waiting for you. Covered in an unidentifiable substance and reeking of a smell that does nothing but prompt wave after wave of nausea, you tear off your clothes in a blind panic and dive headfirst into a shower, where you stay for roughly three hours, scrubbing your skin raw and sobbing. Always with the sobbing.
So if you want to suck at life, encounter the dreaded trash juice. You may be forced to throw out that new pair of $93 jeans, but don’t worry: the stench will stay with you forever.