There is one thing I don’t understand. I don’t understand it no matter how many times I give it. I don’t understand it and it pisses me off. It is something related to recycling containers. Let’s see, in Barcelona, there is one yellow for containers and cans. There are a green one for glass bottles and jars. There are one blue for paper and cardboard. There is one brown for organic wasteand one gray for general garbage. It seems very easy to use them. If one, for some reason, for example due to supine bullshit, with peaks of idiocy and psychopathy, he refuses to separate the rubbish, he has the gray ones. We live in such an inclusive society for undiagnosed boobies and savages.
And if that was not enough, the specific use of each container is indicated with words and pictures. The drawings have no mystery: they are diagrams as simple as traffic signs, interpretable even for an ape, for a paramecium, for an infusorium. Well: with this premise, why the hell one hundred percent of the times I go to throw out the rubbish I find, inside each container, and especially the yellow and blue ones, a welter of incongruous waste?
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Why, just twenty meters from the blue container near my house, I find myself, but glued to the gray container, that is, two parked cars away, a lot of cardboard lying on the ground? Why, since they changed the green containers and made the hole wider, do I notice that the bottles don’t always break, but collide with soft bags, presumably full of plastics? Maybe we get a terrifying epidemic of color blindnessas if we lived in a low-cost version of José Saramago’s novel?
I’m serious. Throwing away the rubbish takes away what little hope I have that humanity will be able to do something to stop the destruction of the planet. I equate the exercise of throwing the garbage with going swimming and tripping over plastics. One wonders about the history of that lost crap: who opened the wrapper, who swallowed the contents, who – with the utmost disinterest, without giving it any importance – let go of the waste with the placidity of a snake that lets go of dead skin. “Who has done this? & rdquor ;, well, one wonders, like the mole in the story, the one who woke up with a shit on his head. So you throw away the garbage, yes, but you come home with a worse one hanging from your arm.