My refrigerator and I speak occasionally

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It's not much during the day. White, drab. Bland. Humming, bumming.

Night. We converse at night. I open the door and a community, a whole society, awaits me.

I'm particularly fond of Jeff, the pickle jar. He's full of these witty little jokes. They make my spleen writhe; they're just so funny. There's nothing quite like it.

He wants this girl. Her name is Bethany. She's a bottle of grey mustard, slouched in the back corner with other condiments. The relish jar, all she does is gossip all day. Stuck, with the others. Bethany's too sensible for such tripe; she'd run away from the mess but can't. I never move her, either. I never take her out of the fridge. We only have her for when my grandparents come over.

"You shouldn't, Jeff. Mustard, and pickles? It just doesn't sound right. Bestiality." I tell him, serious, direct.

He pleads. "The curves of her jar...'"

Suffice to say, he's madly in love with the woman. For shame, for shame. Perhaps I shall finish the pickles, and remove Jeff. A social experiment, if you will.

Milk.


Milk.




....oh my.


Imagine a woman, in Alabama. Large, negroid. The milk shares these qualities, although what it lacks in pigmentation, it makes up with negrotic sass. Relentless, all of them. Having more than one jug at any given time is mayhem in the lower shelves. Divas, everywhere. Errywhere, perhaps.

Juices are perhaps the least exciting. They sit in their little imaginary cubicles, droning away at a computer screen, entirely made up of course. Wasting their lives away, with minimal interaction, barring the occasional imaginary trips to the imaginary water fountain. That's why I go through so much juice. Can't stand to have them in the fridge at night.

There is a social hierarchy, of course. Any collection of sentient beings develops one over time.

The freezers mates, they're at the top. Pizzas, vegetables, quick-fix microwave meals—they're all goddamn royalty. The once in a while the freezer door opens, they scorn you for abusing their royal privacy. Indeed, such filth as humans should never be near beings as perfect as they.

And then you eat them.

The meat drawer comes next. They rule the refrigerator.

No one's ballsy enough to do anything about it. They sit in their drawer, all muscular and gargantuan. The vegetables tremble at the sound of a steak slapping on the counter.

Dairy products are the juveniles. They play, restless, excited. Pent up with energy, they float across their days in elated bliss, woefully ignorant of the corrupted world around them. My, how fortunate they are.

I tend to speak with Harold. He's leftovers from a year ago that never got thrown away. Coated in mold, he has seen it all. His age and consequential knowledge is impeccable.

We speak of the olden times often. When things were better, more organic. The vegetables, the meat: hormones and pesticides. Everyone is becoming so fake, nowadays.

And yet, a tiresome feeling overcomes my body, and I close the door, off to bed. Teeth brushed, I sleep. The food awaits for tomorrow, for me.

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