Yesterday, I used a dishwasher.
These are not the original lyrics to Paul McCartney’s famous song, rather a statement of fact. An inconsequential fact you might think, and to most, that is true. However, it is as much a symbolic act as it is a physical one. No, it is not me washing the problems from my life. It is not me cleansing myself of negativity. No, it is a sign of me giving up.
You see, dishwashers are not particularly environmentally friendly. They use a lot of water and a fair amount of electricity. I have always avoided using them in order to do my part to protect the planet. Can I justify enlarging my carbon footprint with laziness? Do I really want to wait an hour and a half for a machine to finish a load of dishes I could have done by hand in a fraction of the time? I washed by hand for the same reason people seem to be taking to those reusable straws (you know, those things that have to be produced somewhere and come in a plastic container. If only there was some way of consuming a beverage without having to use a narrow tube) – to save the turtles. But obviously not just the turtles.
Whilst I wasn’t enjoying life, it seemed selfish – arrogant even, to pollute unnecessarily. You could say not using a dishwasher meant I had hope. Hope that some good will come. Hope that this world is worth preserving.
It’s all gotten to me recently. Hope has been stifled. I’ve had the last breath of it squeezed out of me. Endless possibilities have been whittled away to a single inevitability.
A quick glance at the news shows that, my personal gripes aside, we don’t have much hope. The Amazon is ablaze. When we’ve had years of scientists from around the world warning us that we need to do our best to combat climate change and we’re deliberately burning the world to the ground to make room for more cows, the fartiest of all the creatures.
Politically we’re all fucked. We’re all lonely, despite the world being as populous as it’s ever been. We’re all shoving fistfuls of anti-depressants down our throats. We’re all enslaved by the little screens in our pockets. We’re all searching for love and struggling to find it; we’ve even checked behind the fridge. We’re all dissatisfied by the way we look, the way we speak, the way we sound and the way we think. We’re all trying to self-improve despite knowing that you can’t polish a turd, even with the fancy new sprays you can get. You can sprinkle glitter on one, but it ultimately has no effect.
I used the dishwasher. It’s all over now.
I’m okay… just the bastards are getting me down.