Step inside and smash the first round of contents down. Just
when you think you can’t take any more shit you find more can
fit. Your container will need to be filled indiscriminately.
Trashed. Suggested ingredients include: unpaid parking tickets,
dogshit, someone else’s syringes, apologetic birthday cards,
empty bottles, bottles filled with flammable liquid, and a rope for
a molotov cocktail. Broken promises, gifts from your ex meant
to woo you back into the pit, rotted food from the back of a
neglected fridge, prescriptions you’ve sworn off, blackmail
photos and razor blades. Many of these won’t burn, but will add
to the ambiance: glowing glass to burst and scatter, syringe
casings to melt, turning toxic plumes into the sky for
unsuspecting passers-by to inhale. Invisible poison. Baptize the
pile in lighter fluid, splashing iridescent sparkling arcs across
the top — like you’re preparing to cook a pig on a spit. You are
layers of chaos and destruction. Cap off your junkyard cake
with the topper, a stack of family law legal fees. Do you believe
this towering pile is just terrible luck? Do you think anyone will
feel sorry for you when it’s all gone? Once you cannot cram any
more in, you might think it is time to burn it all down — an
impulsive mistake. Sit down on the sticky filth where a dumpster
would live. Let your fingers unfist, go limp. You can’t have a
proper dumpster fire if any restraint remains. Your eyes gloss
slick gasoline. Light the match. Tip your head back so the
flames skim the sides, your hair makes excellent kindling. Send
thick columns of things that no longer exist into the night. A
bravery of burning. Once lit, the fire devours everything,
expands more than you imagined. You never could have
imagined. Churning dense ash replaces air. Your chest may
constrict. Your body’s built-in smoke detector doing its job. A
true inferno means warnings were ignored. Let those burn too.
— SARAH MARK
Back to the Review >
