Chapter 1
I don’t remember how I first fell in love with plastic. It wasn’t a specific date or time. It wasn’t accompanied by any strong feelings or obsession. I just woke up and started eating it.
Now, it has become engrained in my schedule. Every morning, I wake up at 6:00AM and go to my local Bread and Butter. I make sure to order two containers of food; one is always empty. The woman working at the cashier always gives me 2 sets of knives and forks. I sometimes order a drink in one of those medium sized plastic bottles, with a straw, of course. I eat my food like normal. I take a few sips of my drink––the truth is, I never really liked soft drinks, anyway. And after this necessity comes the part that I love. I take the straw and chew on it until my teeth forcefully snap it into something edible. I let myself get carried away in the chewing for hours, so it’s always a good idea to wake up early. I feel blissfully lost when I chew my plastic. Like I’m in some kind of far off northern country, surrounded by fog and glens. After the straw goes down––it’s always the easiest to chew––I take my fork, then my knife, and I save the rest of the plastic for later. Sometimes, especially when chewing the fork, my gums bleed, infusing the my meal with the taste of warm iron. I usually just try to ignore it, although I’ve learned that gargling mouthwash both makes the taste better and also numbs my mouth a little, so I usually do that after eating my food. I’ve had a few punctures before, but I try not to think about them. Doing things that you love will always give consequences, and I’ve learned not to classify them as good or bad. They just are.
Usually around 11:00AM, I have finished my meal.
I go back home.
I love my home. There is no floor, or at least, I don’t like to think of it as a floor anymore. Just plastic. Bags, containers, empty bottles… this is where I feel most safe. My bed is the largest mound of plastic, and every night, I snuggle into the plastic, feeling it stick to my skin. If I get too lonely at night, I just chew on whatever’s nearby and my body gets so tired of the constant wearing down that I simply fall asleep.
There are times when I roll over and suffocate myself. A bag might wind up around my face. Whenever this happens, there’s a split moment just before I wake up, where I feel like I’m drowning, that this is it. I claw whatever’s blocking my face off and gasp for air, sitting alone in the dark. Lights from passing cars may illuminate the walls through my window for just a second.
Thinking about this now, I realize that my fantasies of plastic may have been overblown. I keep having this vision where I, from above, watch myself, in third person, fall from the ceiling into my plastic bed. My body instantly disintegrates into the plastic, vanishing forever. I’d be there, yes, somehow; maybe spiritually. But I would not really be there. My body would forever be lost.
This idea brings me great comfort. Sometimes, I think about it so that I can fall asleep.
And yet, when I come the absolute closest to this dream, this perfection––no sirens, no poverty, no sky-rises, just silence––I am afraid. Maybe it’s because unconsciously, I know that it would never be that way. That it feels like I’m chasing something I can never have. My body would rot, turn black, sink into the overwhelming plastic, tainting it. The sterile, clean smell of plastic would be replaced by the stink of a bloating corpse, juices leaking out into the containers.
So here I am.
I feel confused. I welcome the death of our planet because I know that I have more chances to be with what I love. I will continue to dream, every night, of seeing my face, just before it sinks into the plastic completely. That final glimpse will be all that I cherish. I will wear plastic under my clothes, letting it fuse to my skin, turning it red and infected. I will continue to fill my body with it willingly, dedicatedly. And yet, every night, I somehow cannot let it take me.
Always looking down from the edge, too scared to leap in.
