Inanimate Objects Hate Me

Today I found out my favorite kind of blog (despite the fact that I still haven’t read a blog). My friend told me about a girl who writes from the perspective of her fictional disenchanted boyfriend as they drive across the country. As real-life blogger tours the Grand Canyon and Mount Rushmore, fictional boyfriend falls out of love with her. Fucking YES. I wish I’d thought of that. If there’s any character I can speak as, it’s the voice inside my head that falls slowly and apathetically out of love with me. Maybe for my mental health I should blog from the perspective of someone falling back in love with me. Is that too much? I feel like that lacks the snappy sarcastic vibe that this random girl is absolutely rocking. Ugh. I guess I’ll find a different lens of fashionable self-loathing.

Here’s me trying:


From the perspective of my headphones:

I don’t know why I’m still here. I’m obviously the wrong size and shape for her ears. She keeps wrapping me all sorts of ways to make me stay. She doesn’t get the hint: We’re just not compatible. I’m supposed to convey the suave indifference of a societal disconnection and she’s got me up over her ears, running up her back from her pocket like some Walkman headset. If only she listened. I want to get tied up in someone else’s pocket.

I have to admit, though: Today was okay. She’s been listening to the talking types lately, and it’s nice to feel useful for hours at a time. Maybe it’s the calm rhythmic pulses of podcast talk that make her feel good too. I guess there is still some electricity running up my spine.


From the perspective of my bedroom carpet:

She doesn’t know it, but I actually got my start as a torture device. As a young carpet, I’m proud to say that I was the primary actor in over 25 successful interrogations. My specialty is the slow attrition of morale. The Rugged Hands installed me in prison cells, and every few months, Bare Feet would stumble upon me. The Strong Voices of Good Men said that I must be immaculate. The Bad Minds of Weak Men usually didn’t mind—Some even loved the modern vibe of my hard, textured, tightly woven fibers. And then I got to work gently digging into the Tender Feet, welcoming the first morning footsteps with beautifully nauseating friction. As the Bad Minds began to weaken, their Soft Hands would become less fastidious about maintaining me. Breadcrumbs fell into my curves, and I would swallow them up, seducing Soft Hands to get clumsy. And then came the water.

Weak Voice would gasp and I knew it was coming. As the cool, sweet liquid ran over me, I’d hear, “At least it’s only water. It’ll dry by tomorrow.” This is how I break the Bad Men: I don’t let the water dry. I let it seep into my tight fibers and sit. With me, Weak Minds learn that water stains. Water has consequences. The Feet and the Hands and the Breath move and panic and scrub and dab, then wait. I ignore prayers to the gods of evaporation, for I am God now. I am motherfucking Judgment Day.

Bodies bloodied and minds tormented, Bad Men Broken ask forgiveness from omnipotent Carpet God. I am splattered with Salty Tears. And I hold them forever.


In Sum:

Stay with me, headphones. I know it can get uncomfortable, but I need you still.

Fuck you, Demon Carpet. Like honestly. Fuck you.

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