4/10/2020
Henrys’ Apartment
4560 Green Ave
Seattle, WA, 33789

I am writing to inform you of my resignation from being your sponge effective immediately.

I have decided to retire. I have been your sponge for five years and it’s nearly killed me. I mean come on, Henry; I should’ve been thrown out years ago! Even your friends stare at me in fear and disgust. They should be scared; I haven’t been cleaning your dishes properly for years. I’ve been leaving salmonella and E coli on everything, I’m truly surprised you’re still alive.

Henry, be honest. Are you blind? I mean, I look like moldy cheese on slightly older moldy cheese. My figure has been reduced to that of a motel pillow, my scent is reminiscent of three-day-old unflushed urine, and my once royal blue color has deteriorated to a baby blue at best.

Although, that may be due to my low blood pressure, I am five, after all.

We used to be so close, Henry. Washing dishes after dinner was something I used to look forward to every day. Cleaning plates, glasses, and silverware with you was the highlight of my life. But then things started to change after November 14, 2017. A day I will never forget. The day you selfishly got married. This is when the abuse started, and I began to age like a carved pumpkin on its third week outside. You and Sarah stopped rinsing me after washing the dishes, you started tossing me in the sink next to scraps of leftover chicken. I went from having a full view of the kitchen to an underground, empty dungeon. I almost fell in the garbage disposal three times!

About Sarah, I don’t like her. She overcooks everything. Chicken, burgers, even microwavable Hot Pockets. Every time she cooks, I’m forced to wash her burnt grease pans and cheese stained plates for hours.

Yes, I’m bruised. Whenever I’m done washing dishes with her it feels like I just lost a war while unarmed. I don’t like it when she cooks, and I especially don’t like her using me to wash her pots riddled with ash. Did she have a forest fire? She shouldn’t be allowed to cook; I’m surprised she hasn’t burned the apartment.

Even with Sarah around, I tried to stay positive and fight for us. We would spend hours together just washing dishes all over the kitchen, you had the cleanest silverware in Seattle. I loved you, Henry. We were cleaning buddies for life, and I was willing to fight for our relationship.

Then you took my beloved Dawn away and partnered me with some trash Great Value soap. That cheap soap still gives me nightmares. I understand though, you had two newborn children and a minivan to pay for. But Great Value? You know I hate Walmart, they famously underpay their employees.

The shift in our relationship was abrupt. We began as dishwashing lovers, and somehow became an unhappy arranged married couple. It’s the type of marriage where the wife wants to leave but she can’t, she’s stuck there forever, and he’s slowly becoming abusive. I’m the wife, Henry. I wanted to leave for years, but I had hope that things would go back to normal. They never did.

You know something, I blame the birth of your third child. A completely unnecessary family addition. I understand wanting a family. But three? Come on, Henry! This kid takes me as if I’m his toy. I’m not! I’m not his pacifier or his diaper. He crawls around the house like he runs the place—little does he know it’s riddled with mildew.

Now Sarah is pregnant with your fourth child, and although I am happy for you, I cannot handle more of your kids. What on Earth made you have another kid after that third one was such a disappointment. You should’ve stopped after the second one. Your mistreatment of me grows with the number of kids you keep having. I’m like that tattered rag in the garage you use for everything. But I’m not an old rag, Henry, I’m a humble sponge.

Although my life began by loving you, you now disgust me. Once you started having kids, you used me to clean everything, it was too much. In one day, I cleaned your pubic hair infested shower, scrubbed a dog poop stain from your back seat, and was used to bathe your 93-year-old mother. I secretly enjoyed that last one. Regardless, our relationship is over.

I tossed myself in the trash, by the time you read this I’ll be halfway to the bottom of the Pacific.

Sincerely,

Luna, Retired Sponge

Illustration by Tim McGeeView full-size cover art.


Follow PIC on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, or good ol' fashioned email.
Get coaching or feedback on your comedy writing from our editors.