Thursday, August 11, 2011
I hate Mondays… I know, you probably say that all the time, and you think that you really have a goo reason for hating Monday’s but I can bet that mine will top yours hands down.
Monday means I have to deal with her again. I get some freedom over the weekend while she’s not working. She’s doing who knows what, and meanwhile I get to just lounge around and not have to think about her, or her over done lipstick covered lips.
Monday means the beginning of a whole nother week of her having her hands all over me and her lips all over me too. It’s a whole week of her making me feel uncofortably warm both inside and out, and she’s always filling me with her damned Columbian. I hate that smell almost as much as I hate having her gaudy lipstick smeared on my rim.
I remember there was a day she leant me out like some sort of whore to her coworker at lunch. I was so angry. Though I hate being with her at any time, how dare she throw me to someone else as though I don’t matter? I’m with that damned woman every day from 7AM straight until we finally get back to her house and she leaves me in the kitchen while she goes about her cleaning at 8PM. All that time spent together, and then she just gives me away to some guy I’ve never met before so he could put his well manicured, moisturized fingers all over my sleak body and his lip balmed lips all over my rim. How dare she, I ask.
However, after he took me out of the office, I started to enjoy myself, I’ll admit. He went to the park for a walk. She never did that during her lunch break. We usually just sat in the break room and she filled me with her Columbian and I tried my hardest to hold it together as I waited for her disgusting lips to touch me. With this man though, he brought me to the park, and we walked in the sunlight! And he had filled me with French Vanilla! It was such a change! What a wonderful afternoon!
But as they say, all things must come to pass, and before long, I realized we had turned around and before I knew it, we were back in the office, and he had handed my back to her. And as I left his hand and went to hers, I felt the claminess of it, and the heat of it, and I longed to be back in his, but it was too late. I was hers again, and before I knew it, the scent of French Vanilla was gone and was replaced briefly by lemon and then returned back to the horrid smell of Columbian.
So I hope you can understand why I hate Mondays more than you do. You’re not filled with a putrid liquid, nor are you groped and liked by a disgusting woman you had no choice in being chosen by. This is my hell that I live.
So it’s Monday, and here we are, walking to the Subway so we can go to work. I’ve already been filled twice, and feel like I am going to die of the fumes coming out of me. For a moment I wonder how it’s possible that she hasn’t died yet from the amount of Columbian she consumes in a day, much less, a week! She should be six feet below, and then maybe I would be used by someone who prefers richer blends. I could only dream.
Oh, we’re catching the 1 uptown! We usually take the 3. I’m not sure why. She usually waits for the 3. Hmm, sadly, not that much different on the 1. For some reason I had always hoped it would be different in some way. Same types of people. Some I even recognize. I look longingly at a Dunkin Donuts travel mug in the hand of a young woman in a business suit and even at a Seattle’s Best paper cup being held by an older black man in a wool jacket. How I wish for a moment I could be one of them.
Oh, here’s our stop. Why is she moving so quickly? We’re not late for work yet, are we? Is this why we took the 1? I guess we’re running late. I hope we’re not late. When we’re late, she gets yelled at by her boss, a man, way younger than her, and then she’s upset and disappointed in her life, etc., and then she drinks a lot of coffee. I mean even more than she does already! I hope we’re not late!
Hey, I’m nearly empty!
Ah, the peace of being just me, no disgusting liquid filing me. She’ll shove me into her purse rudely next, but I don’t mind, I’ll be out of her clammy hands. Here she goes.
Oh! I’m not all the way in! I’m sticking out! Why hasn’t she noticed? I’m going to fall!
Oh no, oh no, oh no! I’m on the sidewalk, and she’s still walking quickly away from me! I can barely see her. I can’t believe this, I actually wish I could be back in her disgusting hands! Oh no…
How did he not see me? A man just kicked me!
And now she kicked me too?!
Oooof! Oooof! Oooof! Oooof!
Oh no, where am I now?
Am I in the street?
Oh no, this is not good. I’ve seen what happens to cups that fall into the streets. Please, someone, pick me up! Pick me up!
That cab is coming towards me way to fast!
I wish I had eyes I could close!
Oh, what’s this?
Soft, delicate hands holding me.
It’s a woman. More like a girl She can’t be more than 18. Why did she pick me up?
“Hey Jess!” she yells.
“Yeah Jane?” I hear another voice yell back.
“Look what I just found?”
“Is that that one you wanted from Starbucks last December but didn’t get before they stopped selling them?”
“It is! How cool is that? And it looks brand new!”
“You’re thinking of keeping it?”
“Well, the last person who owned it could have AIDS or something! This is New York after all…”
“Eh, chances of that are way too low. I’ll just wash it with some real hot water and then throw it into the dishwasher, and it’ll be all good.”
“It’s your funeral!”
The girl called Jane slid me gently into her backpack where I felt like I was for the first time since I left the Starbucks over a year ago, at peace.
Once Jane had cleaned me as she had told the girl called Jess, I felt beautiful. And to my surprise, Jane had good taste. My first morning with Jane as my owner, she woke up early for what I learned from listening to her grumble to herself, while making her morning coffee, was her early morning ballet class. And to my surprise she filled me with not just any French Vanilla, but Starbucks French Vanilla.
I was home.