Today I woke up early, in order to go to another trip the the recycling center. I really don't look forward to going because there are sometimes a lot of drug addicts that hang out near bye. I do my best to keep to myself and I don't talk to anyone, except the guy who works there. I don't particularly enjoy collecting cans and plastic bottles, but I can't turn my head away from the thirty dollars I might make. I have a bad habit of putting all my cans and bottles against my kitchen wall, in a bunch of plastics bags, large and small. I wish I had a better place to store them, but if I kept them outside on my balcony, they would surely be stolen. I mean, my car's battery has been stolen twice and my son's car seat taken, so I'm sure if I put my recycling outside on my balcony, it would be last time I saw them. The lines are sometimes very long at the recycling center, and it's a get there first kind of place, but some people cheat. They jump out of their cars and place a bag of cans in the line, while they have so much more in their automobile. Then they take their sweet time, while I have to wait. I stand in line and watch the people around me. I can tell some are drug addicts, while others are clearly mentally ill. I sometimes wonder if the mentally ill ones can notice if I'm a little like them? The truth is, my behavior is probably just as strange as what I think others portray. I made about thirty-five dollars, and all that money is going toward the food I'm going to buy at the grocery store. It isn't a lot, but I'm still grateful.
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My dying car...