Bin there, Jung that

Compost Therapy: What Your Rotting Vegetables Say About You
A decomposed psychological analysis

Let’s face it: we all have emotional baggage, and we all handle it differently. Some of us wear
our heart on our sleeve, some of us bury our emotions, and some of us keep it in a countertop
bin with a carbon filter.
Compost is nature’s therapy — a slow, steaming stew of past mistakes, half-formed intentions,
and forgotten kale. And like any good therapist, your compost doesn’t judge. It simply observes,
processes, and breaks things down... biologically and emotionally.
Here’s what your rotting vegetables are trying to tell you:

The Slimy Bag of Spring Mix

You were going to eat salads this week. You believed in that as you stood in the grocery aisle
and gazed upon those little green darlings beneath the plastic. But deep down, you knew.

Diagnosis: Chronic optimism.

Suggested Treatment: Accept that your true greens are sour gummy worms and plant a nice
patch of mint instead — for mojitos.

The Black Banana

There’s more brown than yellow on the skin now. You said you’d make banana bread. You even
pulled out grandma’s recipe. You had plans.

Diagnosis: Overachiever in denial.

Suggested Treatment: Let it go. Not every ambition needs to ripen into productivity. Sometimes
it just needs to ferment quietly in a bowl. There’s always next time. Until then, munch on a few
walnuts while sniffing vanilla extract and think of better days.

The One Weird Carrot You Forgot in the Crisper Drawer

It’s shriveled. It’s haunting. It’s pointing to something deeper.

Diagnosis: Emotional repression and poor fridge organization. Latent tendency to try to fix
unfixable romantic partners.

Suggested Treatment: Clean the drawer. Journal. Maybe cry about middle school. Especially the part about Griff Odenballer. Ah Griff, juvie took you too soon. I hope you enjoyed the banana bread. (Call me.)

This Must be Compost, Mustn’t it?

You’re hoarding questionable compostables (moldy bread, leftover falafel) like a blind squirrel
with a bag of circus peanuts.

Diagnosis: Creative burnout masked as eco-virtue.

Suggested Treatment: Repeat after me: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I can
recycle or compost, the courage to throw things in the trash can, and the wisdom to know the
difference." Sometimes trash is, well, trash.

Your compost knows who you really are: a soft-hearted, well-intentioned chaos gardener trying
to save the planet one banana peel at a time. Let your scraps go. Let them transform. And if
nothing else, be grateful that unlike your ex, your compost at least turns into something useful.

Now go turn that pile. You’ll feel better.