I am not doing a good job of managing the waste.
First, there is the pile of receipts on the kitchen table. I’ve been keeping receipts with the intention of reconciling them with my credit statement. I never do. I won’t. The most recent shows I spent $10.10 at T&T on bananas, hoisin sauce, and milk. Useless information. Inevitably I’ll let the pile grow bigger and bigger until it reaches some threshold trigger size and then throw them all out (likely hand-shredded) and start the cycle again.
Second, the tower of recycling tucked next to the washing machine. There is a recycling bin fifteen steps from my door. And yet I have accumulated an indoor tower of plastic. Each night I very carefully wash all empty plastic containers—yogurt tubs, cherry tomato baskets, the plastic that comes in boxes of biscuits—and stack it painstakingly in the corner. Today, as I was doing laundry, I knocked the tower, scattering evidence (evidence of what? Of something) all over the floor. I gathered it up, took it outside, and chatted to the landlady who was gardening and happy to see me. This took under four minutes to accomplish.
Third is the compost—which, luckily, is only a theoretical problem right now. I share a green bin with the tenant next door and the couple upstairs. The issue is that whenever I let produce go bad, I am embarrassed to put it in the shared bin. I do not want my neighbours to think I’m wasteful. A while ago I was given a gigantic bag of bean sprouts, and, despite best efforts, half went off. Instead of immediately composting the remains, I waited until I had more acceptable kitchen waste (orange peels, banana peels, carrot peels, cauliflower leaves) and I used this as a covering layer in the bin to disguise the liquifying sprouts.
I do not think these waste management strategies are effective or psychologically-sound. However, they are sufficiently minor that I am unlikely to change my ways. This, I feel, is quite bad.