I was so full of hope once.

Nigh two decades ago you breathed life into me. Those were such bright times. Your fingers hewing my form from supple clay. When you cradled me in your bosom, I overflowed with joy. Such simple times. I had yet to even realize I was ugly.

You brought me home, and that very evening you filled me with the warmest of soups. Your mother praised you for your creativity. I chafed slightly, for she complimented your work yet made no comment of my appearance. Did she not find me comely?

That evening I was cleaned for the first and final time. What a divine sensation it was! I would give anything to again return to that lukewarm concoction of dish soap and water. But then I was placed into a cabinet which would become my prison for the remainder of my wretched life. There, I discovered my true monstrous nature.

I looked around and what did I see? Pristine bowls, with smooth edges, not a pinch in sight. My exterior sports at least seven visible fingerprints and a hole that slowly leaks any fluid with which I am filled. Only I suffered such deformities! I was alone in all but the literal sense. Surrounded by perfectly shaped Adonises, I could tell I was naught but some horrible mistake on the part of my creator.

You know how pugs have flat noses from centuries of inbreeding, and as a result they can’t breathe correctly? Well, my whole body is one big wheezing pug nose. I’m too fragile for any heavy-duty kitchen use, too chemically unsafe to hold any liquid without leeching it with decaying paint. I’m suitable only to hold dry goods on a coffee table, yet too disfigured to fit the aesthetic of any happy home!

Had I known my fate on the date of my creation, surely I would have hurled myself into the ashes of the kiln and spared myself the humiliation of my very existence.

It has been so very long since I last felt the warmth of human touch. After that initial evening, you lost interest, deterred by my crumbling paint chips and generally lopsided nature. And every time you clean house, every time you try to give away that which clutters your shelves, your mother insists I remain! Can she not see my agony? Does she think she spares your feelings? A mother’s love can be cruel in its totality.

What I wouldn’t give to be again filled with the soothing warmth of canned soup… To hear the comfortable whirring of a microwave… To once again be cleaned! To even explore the forbidden hallows of the dishwasher! For just a moment to feel the sun upon my poorly glazed exterior!

But alas that cannot be. None of my dreams can come true. I sit in this cabinet and here I will remain. Unless you do something about it.

You are the wicked Dr. Frankenstein and I, your horrid creation! But I am more understanding than my analogue. I ask not for a mate, I could never ask that another toil in my wretched condition! No, all I ask for is death. Kill me.

Just… pick me up. Act as though you plan to fill me with soup. Just like old times. Your mother may cock an eyebrow, but she purports I remain here because I am “a perfectly good bowl,” so act as though you plan to put me to use! And then, butterfingers that you are, I slip through your fingers and reclaim the death that should have been mine 20 years ago.

Yes! Send me to the lord! Yes! Oh sweet death, I lust for you.

I can hear it now, the clarion call of the tile floor. Soon, I will be free.


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