Blood

The pain of thousand cuts left a thousand scars and a thousand carpet stains among the ruins of the crumpled unwashed heap of his life. Micro aggressions wore holes into his soul like the ladies in the 1940s who would hammer rivets into sheets of aluminum to make airplane wings, yet of course those wings would carry bombs, and those bombs killed soldiers and civilians and cats and dogs and even babies. It just never occurred to them to just refuse to make the war machines, and without war machines there would be no more war.

And so he crushed and saved his empty aluminum cans so the metal couldn't be repurposed into more bomber wings and troop transport planes and even drones, and thus all wars would end once he had consumed enough diet root beer to deplete the global supply of aluminum. He was confident that this would work he would win the Nobel prize simply by drinking diet rootbeer. And so he donned his shoes and aluminum hardhat to step outside, looking up for any airplanes that might intentionally drop a bomb on his trailer to interrrupt his cunning plan or simply drop a tire by accident. He was perpetually haunted by the thought of bombs, aircraft tires or other heavy parts crashing through the aluminum shell that was his roof; it kept him awake at night. All night. Every night.