I went to physical therapy to get my ankles worked on. On the wall was a huge black flag with a skull and crossbones in the middle and the words, "Beatings Will Continue Until Morale Improves." I knew I was in for a painful one.
As the trainer worked on me, he asked, "So... what is it that you do?" This interaction is usually awkward for me but even more so when the trainer treats my leg like an accordion. In between wincing and forced deep breaths, I respond, "I work on reuse and—pfff—like cups and—Ouch!" The trainer disregarded my whining and moved on to my other leg. He casually continued the conversation, "Isn't recycling, like, the same thing?"
I was going to go into my spiel but instead responded, "Sort of," because I saw him grab the "scrapper," which is a de facto torture device.
Months later, when my ankle rose from the ashes like a phoenix, I finally got the lower leg strength to respond honestly. Mr. Therapist guy, no, recycling is not like reuse at all.
I didn't give him my official definitions to not bore the holy hell out of my therapist. I told him, "Reuse is washing your cup, and recycling is throwing it away."
He did a good job of faking interest and then changed the subject, "You think the Suns are gonna get Durant?"
"No. Fucking. Chance."
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