I live in Oklahoma where every day is kite day. This is our city recycle bin:
There is no lid or any kind of covering apparatus. And as you know, recycling isn’t recycling if you place your recyclables in plastic bags. So this is what happens to my home every Friday afternoon after trash pick-up:
A neighbor’s recyclables blow into the wind only to find shelter on my front porch. This is clearly not my empty gallon of milk, because it’s from Crest Foods. I do not shop at Crest Foods because they do not take American Express, the credit card even the Almighty Himself prefers (His life. His card. You’ve seen the ads.)
I will confess. Mother Earth does not kiss my cheek every night that I go to bed thanking me for my efforts in her preservation. I am quite militant, however, that all lights be turned off when they are not serving their purpose. You see, I am my mother’s daughter. Like her, a burned bulb tears me up inside. There is nothing rational about this, I know. Even so, it interferes with my sleep. Moreover, I have high ceilings with lighting that demands a ladder. Oh, the effort. There is really is no point to my light bulb story. I’m just tired of picking up other people’s trash. For real.