I am growing weeds on purpose because a few years ago I took a foraging class and such is my estrangement from the natural world that it actually shocked me that there were edible things out there right by the side of the road. Miners lettuce is the cutest of the edible weeds, with its pair of smooth spade shaped leaves and tiny bunches of flowers, while stinging nettle is the most vengeful and sawtoothed. It hurts like a hornet sting is what I remember from the foraging class. In a backyard planter mixing accident I can’t recall committing they’re growing together in one pot, which makes no sense at all.

Bin books are gadgets and as such must be lashed to your corporeal being ready to receive the infinite scroll of your senseless thoughts in written form. And so, attach it to yourself. Tape a safety pin on it, stab a keyring through the duct tape binding. Whatever works.

When you are in the company of distasteful people be like Harriet the Spy and write something unfiltered and disparaging on one of the bin book’s grocery bag pages. Because offline, no one can hear you think.

Basically, you take some leftover paper nonsense, and make it into a book. I recommend that it be around the size of a cigarette pack. What you’re going to do with it is this: tape junk into it, write inscrutable things, tack on useless accessories like strings and paper clips. It’s a field journal of Actual Reality which is a long non sequitur of half baked observations and gum wrappers that no one but you is really aware of.

Once you’ve taped enough band aid wrappers to your bin book, filled it with enough senseless thought fragments, it will take on a shine like sea glass from the churning surf of your aimless additions. You will need to know where it is at all times.

That’s how it works.