To The Corner of My Mother's Coffee Table:
I don't like you.
I get it. You have a purpose to support the southwest corner of the oak piece that houses past issues of Good Housekeeping and aged coffee rings--noble profession, really.
I mean, how could we live without you?
Oh, let me tell you! It would be glorious; immaculately wonderful! They say there is no such thing as perfection, but your absence would make perfection tangible, reachable.
Do you even realize how many toes you've bruised? Nerves you've upset? Fists you've clenched? Swears you've birthed?
You, sir, are the corner of pomposity.
You are ninety degrees of negativity.
The bottom twenty-five percent of practicality.
A quarter not worth twenty-five cents!
The wrong of all right angles!
In case it was not spelled out for you: I DON'T LIKE YOU. My shins, my toes, my hips, my sense of touch, my strong filter of profanities all feel the same. We detest your pretentious, arrogant existence.
With all the rage of a stubbed toe, I smack you in farewell.
Shall we meet again? Undoubtedly you will show your cocky face one shadowy, barefoot night because that's who you are: unforgiving and intrusive.
I hope that one day you burn like firewood in the deepest ring of hell.
An innocent, abused bystander
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