For five days I’ve labored tirelessly to clean my apartment. Sorting out the junk that I’ve accumulated for years. Part of my cleanup routine was to take out the bags of garbage, reusable junk, and recyclables around two in the morning to avoid being seen by other humans in my hobo dusty disgraceful state. It’s nice to step out in my home clothes, worry-free from humiliation, and get some fresh air as I walk to the garbage bins in the back alley. On my last night of cleaning, I had this sense of relief that my grueling task was finally coming to an end. I grabbed my big black garbage bag, full of shredded papers and unmailed love letters, and stepped out for my last trip to the garbage bin. About fifteen feet away from it, I could hear rustling. My neighborhood has raccoons and skunks. The last thing I want to happen is get sprayed by a skunk. So I stopped about ten feet away from it, stood sideways, and looked over my shoulder and squinted – as I tried to guage, in the poorly lit back alley, on how high my toss should be to shoot the garbage bag into the half-opened garbage lid. I swung the bag back with one hand and hurled it onto the bin. Bullseye! Then I heard a loud, “Ouch! You scared the hell out of me!” Startled, I hurried back inside and yelled back, “Sorry! Last time I checked raccoons can’t talk!”


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