When I threw out my well-used, crappy sofa at college, I felt sorry for it. It looked so forlorn sitting on top of a dumpster, kind of like an unloved red-headed stepchild. (Yes, I know that's an unfortunate, awful stereotype, but growing up red-headed and oddly different from the rest of my family, it applies).
I bid my old friend, Sofa, farewell, hoped it'd find a second life elsewhere.
Inanimate objects always get to me. Empathetic to a point, I fall in love with coffee-makers, conduct yelling bouts with toilets, demand that fire alarms quit chirping. My gang.
Don't even get me started on my best friend, Roomba. She actually talks. Sure, her dialogue is limited to warnings about being recharged or her desire to be moved and restarted, but it's nice to hear her voice. Bonus points in that she cleans the house while I sit and write. Ah, Roomba... I apologize for stepping on you that one time.
Sigh...
I work at home. Loneliness is next to insanity.
My wife pretty much thinks my preoccupation with anthropomorphism is ludicrous. That may be. But she's never debated a hot dog before either, so she clearly doesn't know what she's missing.
Hey, while we're on the topic of insanity, check out my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. There are quite a few people lurking within the pages who have more than a few screws loose.
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