As a writing exercise, I took the sight of my trash and exaggerated it to interesting proportions. From the description, I could extract four sections to use in stories as if left as a single chunk, it's too much to bear. But it worked my ability to imagine from memory, to alter reality, and to use concrete nouns and verbs to set a certain tone (one of disgust). My actual garbage is not this bad, hopefully it's never been this bad, and it's been since emptied.
The pizza boxes piled high hid the trash bag. But the bag
was split and spilt. Soda stuck the floor and a used Q-tip was trapped and
colored brown. Syrup or ear muck? Leaves from broccoli, carrot peelings, and
the grisly bits of pork spattered the wood floors and rotted. The bright letterings of
a potato chip bag was legible through the thin plastic bag. Ripped underwear
still smelled of ass crack, but that was the more pleasant scent tangled in its
fibers—now rot, mold, and last week’s supper emptied from the catch fouled it.
McDonald’s bags contained other trash, gathered from beside the pillow, but the
bag had reeked when brought home and the chilled air had not dampened the smell.
The toppings of a double quarter pounder were scraped by napkins but had missed
the opening of the bag and slicked the sides of the plastic. Ramen, Kit-Kat,
and ice cream sandwich wrappers blew when the door opened. The hand-vac was
full and needed another to suck off its dust. The battery was dead and the charging
chord exposed and frayed. Wet naps, browned from use, wadded in the bottom of the bag, keeping its space spotless and soggy.
I love you.
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