Running around Home Depot screaming about the quandry that $40 trash cans present me. Why can’t I just buy a trash can for $5? What’s happening in the world? Clearly, it’s a trash can. Just a trash can. I don’t need something fancy or with flowers on it. All I need is a trash can. But I’m beginning to feel overwhelmed by the choices that American capitalism has presented me. Generally I’m very pleased by the idea having choices, but seeing as I’m not trying to define my existence through the presence of a garbage receptacle in my kitchen – I mean, I just don’t care. I want something cheap and functional. And maybe garbage cans should come with your house or your apartment when you buy/rent it, like a sink faucet. Sure, I can go out and upgrade my sink faucet, but it does what I want it to do, much like a trash can. So this should be easy.
But it’s not. I’m beginning to feel like a middle aged, suburban consumer as I’m wandering around the aisles, trying to contemplate the neural mechanisms behind whatever massive trash can corporation is creating all these different trash cans.
I’m beginning to feel bad for the friends that I forced to come with me to Home Depot, today, a Monday, at 8:30 pm. As flustered and frenzied, I can’t stop thinking about the functionality and purpose and joy that owning a new trash can will bring to my life. The sense of completeness when I put it in my kitchen, step back and admire my handiwork. Thank you, America, for blessing me with a deep sense of wholeness at having a working, modern day kitchen in the apartment I rent with my friends. I’m not sure how ads about trash bags and dish detergent are effecting the psychological ramifications of having an ever ticking biological clock, but I’m sure that purchasing this trash can today is going to somehow lead to the inevitable nervous breakdown I’m going to have in 20 years, when, single and childless, I realize that I’ve made all the wrong decisions, and I’ll be 44, watching TV, and some Polaroid film commercial is going to make me cry and regret everything I’ve ever done. So I accept the fact that the advertising has successfully turned me into a victim of overwhelming media images, and the false sense of satisfaction I’m garnering from buying a trash can at Home Depot is only a product of years and years and years of market research turned into successful advertising campaigns.
Or something, but it doesn’t help that none of these trash cans have the right price posted on them. So as my friends complain at me that we have to leave, I run up to the front with my carefully selected trash cans in hand. Unfortunately, the woman at the front desk looks like she hates everything in life, and that she also probably hates me the most, mostly because I am an ambassador of life, trash can in hand, smiling stupidly while this deep sense of accomplishment thrashes in my veins.
I think the lesson I’ve learned from this whole experience is that I should masturbate much more frequently.