There is a whirring thing at the bottom of my drain that grinds up leftover food. I forgot exactly what it's called, but for purposes of laziness I'm just not going to look it up on google. It has a name, however, other than the one that I forgot, and the name is branded in a circle around my drain for all eternity. Its name is
The other day this happened to a measuring spoon, and I had to try to hammer it back into shape, the whole time muttering apologies to the poor measurer.
Perhaps you think it's weird that I talk to my spoons, but I am of the Toy Story generation, and wholeheartedly believe in the souls and ambitions of inanimate objects.I am also a synesthete, a person whose brain confuses his or her senses so thoroughly that he or she (I think the non-sexist pronoun should be "it" but I have been told by my English teacher that this is insensitive to human beings) believes letters and numbers have colors and sounds, and air has a feeling, and feelings have appropriately corresponding colors, smells, and fratboys, and then the whole world turns into a giant knot made of embroidery thread.
Synesthesia is actually pretty cool and totally non- threatening, and you should look it up on Wikipedia, which will give you a much better explanation than the one I just offered.
ANYWAY,the point of all of this is that I have a totally logical reason, other than ancient Japanese Shintoism, for believing that my spoons feel the pain and wrath of the insinkerator on a deeply personal, spoon-ish level.
UPDATE: Goddamnit!!! Now it's going after my forks!