These stupid, no-good pieces of shit. These damned to all hell stones in my grinding gears. A rip-off, in every sense of the way.

I’m talking about the plastic straps on garbage bags. These useless ties, with their danger-tape red, or caution-yellow. With their wrinkled hole to be pulled from, delivering agonizing resistance to that very act.

Patience-defying straps of doom. I loathe them. Loathe them with my soul.

I fumble and fumble and somehow–God knows how–get a grip on one side of the garbage bag strap. Oh, but the other side wants to play hide-and-fucking-seek. It won’t show up, folded nice and needly somewhere in-between two layers of black plastic. Somewhere in the folds of space-time. In oblivion.

Then, by the grace of the gods, I find the second end and pull. Gently, because this ain’t my first rodeo. Though, all for naught. Karma hates me. Fate hates me. The damned string rips–no matter what. No matter how gentle. No matter what brand. They all rip. And tear. And freak me the-fuck-out.

Strap–defier of the tie-up. Once again, I’m defeated. One piece of strap still in my clutch, the other still attached to the bag, and a garbage bag threatening to tip over by the force of the misjudged pull. Ready to spill, like the tears from eyes.

Ye Gods, we can sent a robot to mars. Why can’t we invent a garbage bag strap that isn’t the utter-most feeble and weak construct ever designed by humankind?

I’m angry now.